A Hinge in the Air
by Mingsmommy
Summary: Written for Wojelah, the winning bidder on my help haiti auction. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Japan by Billy Collins. Previously posted on LiveJournal. WARNING: Character Death.
1. Chapter 1

**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:**Teen/FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** During the bidding for **help_haiti**, **wojelah** was kind enough to bid on and won my fic offering. Previously posted on LiveJourrnal

Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from one of the poems she provided as a prompt Japan by Billy Collins.

This would never have seen the light of day without **smacky30** and **smittywing**; they are both unfailingly generous with their time and talents, encouraging me line by line and making me want to be better. They've corrected my grammar, made suggestions, made me smile and kept me from chucking the whole thing when I was sick of it. Oh, and by the way, all of the best lines came from comments they made. I am grateful to both of them.

* * *

"Did he give you a reason?" Garcia glides from one keyboard to another in her rolling chair, neon pink, lime green and electric yellow hair baubles bouncing with the movement.

From her position leaning against the far wall, Emily shrugs, "He said he didn't want to rent a tux."

Garcia turns to look at her, red painted lips agape. "What?" She places a dramatic hand over her not inconsiderable cleavage. "You don't honestly want me to accept that Derek Morgan, he of the uber-smooth, the man who practically invented cool, does not have his own tuxedo?" Her voice drops to a pained and scandalized whisper. "I don't believe it."

Laughing, Emily holds up a hand, as if swearing. "I know! It doesn't fit the profile."

"What doesn't fit the profile?"

Both women look up to see Rossi standing in the door of Garcia's office with an open folder in hand. Garcia's face visibly brightens and she points her purple fuzzy-capped pen in Prentiss' direction. Emily starts to shake her head "no", but the tech has a goal firmly in sight. "Supervisory Special Agent Rossi," she smiles in a way Emily could only describe as gleefully predatory.

Rossi, with suddenly narrowed eyes, seems to realize he's in Garcia's crosshairs. The very thought would send lesser men screaming, but Rossi warily answers. "Yes, Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia?"

"Such a suave and debonair gentleman as yourself must own a tuxedo, yes?" A finely arched brow cocks challengingly in his direction.

Still looking somewhat cautious, he answers, "I own several."

"I see." Garcia stands and, much as if she were inspecting him in one of those tuxes, circles her prey with measured steps, each clack of a high-heeled pump on the floor portending a potentially awkward moment in Emily's mind. "And wasn't it just last week I heard you tell our fair Emily here that you owed her for finishing up the paperwork on the serial arsonist in Tacoma so you could scoot off to your book signing in Manhattan?"

Rossi looks to Emily, but she knows there's no thwarting Penelope Garcia when she's on a mission. Emily simply shakes her head and tells herself she'll let him off the hook later.

Seeing no help coming from her, he shrugs. "Yes, I did say that and yes, I do still owe her."

Clasping her hands together under her chin, Garcia gasps rapturously. "Oh, SSA Rossi, I have the perfect way for you to repay our lovely Agent Prentiss."

Rossi quirks an eyebrow in Emily's direction, but she covers her face with her hands so she doesn't see his expression when he says, "I'm listening."

"And I'm leaving." Emily starts to move away from the wall when the fuzzy purple pen _and_ a death glare aim themselves in her direction.

"Mortal, dare not confound the will of the goddess."

Holding up her hands in surrender, Emily subsides.

Settling back in her task chair, Garcia gives Rossi another smile, this one a little more warm, a little less…frightening as she arranges the skirt of her polka-dotted dress over the chair. "Well, it seems Ambassador Prentiss has sent down an edict from on high requiring a command performance of our Emily at a charity event this coming Saturday."

Sighing, Emily wonders if she has any ibuprofen in her desk. Or vodka; vodka would be good. It's not that she thinks Rossi wouldn't be a good date, it's just sort of like the time in fourth grade when her best friend tried to get the most popular boy in class to skate with her by giving him a dollar. "I could skip it, but it's not worth the grief, and I could go without an escort but that would result in roughly four hundred attempts to fix me up with some politician or guy from the Foreign Service. Not interested."

Rossi nods. "Sure, I'll take you."

Penelope squeals and claps her hands and Emily just blinks.

"Look, Rossi, I know Garcia is a frigging force of nature-"

"Hey!"

"-but you don't have to-"

He holds up a hand. "I always pay my debts, Prentiss and if I get a night of free Scotch out of it, it's not exactly a hardship, is it?"

She starts to protest again, but he gives her the eyebrow with attitude and she holds her own hands up in defeat. Rossi nods as he turns back to Garcia. "Can you run a search for me on these three guys? Anything you can find, but I'm particularly interested in early life and how they got into the cult business."

"Am I searching for common factors or just general information?" Garcia is already laser focused on the screens in front of her, the keys clicking rapidly. As he begins giving the tech details of what he's looking for, Emily slips from the room.

She gives him another opportunity to back out, but he just gives her that look he has that says, _why are we still talking about this?_ and assures her that he's glad to do it. So she tells him she'll pick him up at seven on Saturday night. He protests a little, then she cocks an eyebrow and asks him if he's such a chauvinist he can't stand a little gender shift. He counters with "old fashioned" and, when she rolls her eyes, he reminds her he has a roomier, more comfortable automobile. But she gives him a look of her own with the firm statement, "If part of your payment for enduring this is unlimited free Scotch then not having to worry about driving will help you enjoy it all the more."

She's still feeling a little ridiculous when she pulls her Prius into his driveway at five til seven Saturday evening, but she reminds herself it's Rossi. He's a teammate and a friend and he's doing her a favor. When he opens the door she can't help the sound of feminine appreciation at the sight of him in his tuxedo. "Oh, my, Agent Rossi. You look quite dapper."

He inclines his head, stepping back, indicating she should come in. "Are you saying I clean up well?"

As she steps by him she catches the scent of his very nice and undoubtedly very expensive cologne."I'm saying you look like James Bond." She hands him the bottle of wine she brought. "I thought this would be better than a corsage."

Glancing at the label, his face morphs into an expression both pleased and a little impressed as he counters her first remark, "James Bond for the geriatric set."

"Hardly," Emily answers dryly as he takes her wrap. She feels him pause and looks at him over her shoulder, then turns to face him fully.

"Emily," he says, and there is no mistaking the appreciation in his voice. "If I were James Bond you'd be just the type of femme fatale to bring me down."

Blushing a little, she smoothes the dress over her hips before giving a slight curtsy. "Thank you." Backless from her neck down to where the curve of her ass begins, the black dress gathers between her breasts and sweeps to the ground, a small band of crystals under the bodice the only ornamentation.

"I thought you'd wear red," he says, but she doesn't have time to process that before he continues. "You look amazing."

Laughing a little, she can't deny the little thrill of pleasure that goes through her at his words. "I tend to get less grief for my wardrobe choices when I go with the classics."

His eyebrows go up. "Oh, that's a classic all right." His eyes flick over her again. "No wonder you have to beat men off you at these things. I need to bring my gun, I think."

"Rossi," she shakes her head.

"I'm just sayin'..."

Giving him the full benefit of her widest smile, she repeats, "Thank you."

"My pleasure." He grins back, jerking his head towards the back of the house. "Come on, let's have a glass of wine before I have to face the throngs of men falling at your feet."

She makes a face. "I brought that for you as a thank you. I didn't mean for you to have to share it with me."

But he's already in the kitchen, corkscrew in hand. "A good bottle of wine should always be shared with a beautiful woman."

Rolling her eyes a little, Emily leans against the kitchen island, watching him as he pulls the cork from the bottle. "On Monday when you're back to treating me like a pain in your ass should I remind you how freely these compliments fell from your lips?"

Both his eyebrows climb, but the rest of his face blanks. "Do I treat you like you're a pain in the ass?" He lifts a decanter from a cabinet and sets it on the counter.

Emily laughs and she may be blushing, she's just not sure; she waves a hand airily to cover the gaffe. "I was joking."

"Yes, I know," he nods sagely, "you, both the general 'you' as the human population and the specific 'you,' as Emily Prentiss, commonly deflect compliments with humor." He's watching the wine as he decants and she blinks at the observation. "But the whole thing about using humor to state a truth is pretty accurate."

One should not get dressed up to stand in an attractive coworker's kitchen and stutter, she thinks. "I...um...no." She shakes her head, feels her hair move a little too much and reminds herself to check it before they leave, "No, you don't treat me like I'm a pain in the ass."

"But that statement came from somewhere?" He sets the bottle beside the decanter and quirks an eyebrow at her.

"Well." She makes a face. "You can be very driven and when you first rejoined the team you could be pretty intensely focused on whatever goal was in front of you." Her finger traces idly over the grout between two of the tiles on the island. "You aren't in the least shy about moving people out of the way who are between you and those goals."

He nods, his look somehow closed and curious at the same time. She should just shut up.

"It wasn't ever anything..." Someone should really tell her mouth that the rest of her has decided she should shut up. Taking a breath, she starts again. "Finding footing with the team was hard for me when I first came and they really had no expectations of me. You came back basically as a legend and I've read the old case files. I know it was different then, so, yeah learning to adapt couldn't have been easy."

Rossi purses his lips and tilts his head in that way he has that says he agrees, however reservedly. She feels her eyes widen when she realizes she's not only been babbling, she's been profiling him to his face. "God, Rossi. Why don't you tell me to shut up?"

He snorts a laugh and pulls two wine glasses down from the same cabinet the decanter came from. "Emily, that would be rude."

Emily is flushing so hard she knows she must be scarlet. "Rude?" Touching her cheek, she feels the heat. "You mean like what I just did?"

Pouring the wine into glasses, he shakes his head, smiling. "Don't worry about it." He looks up at her briefly then switches his gaze back to the wine. "I did ask."

Now would be a good time, she thinks, for the floor to open and swallow her. Why didn't that ever happen when she wanted it to? "I'm so sorry."

Rounding the counter with both glasses in hand, he looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.

"This is...I'm sorry," she repeats. "I'm a little nervous, because this is different." Which is as close as she's going to come to admitting that she's got butterflies because, even though he's just doing her a favor, this is really date-like. Morgan is a friend and it would have been meaningless, but Rossi is well...Rossi, and no amount of torture would get her to admit aloud she's had a bit of a crush on him since she was at the Academy. "And I'm wondering if my mother has any plots up her sleeve for tonight. When I'm nervous, I say the wrong thing." She takes a breath and accepts a glass from him. "You are a wonderful team member and a great partner. And I owe you for having my back and covering my ass. You have never treated me with anything but respect. Ever. I'm sorry if my...awkwardness made you think I thought otherwise."

Clinking his glass against hers, he says, "To my favorite pain in the ass," and drinks.

Ruefully shaking her head, she takes a sip from her own glass. "At least I get to be favorite," she mutters.

Jerking his head towards the great room, he smirks. "Let's sit down for a minute and you can warn me about any land mines or how to protect you from any potential plots by your mother." He smiles engagingly. "You can brief me on any potential international incidents in the car."

The event, a charity ball the ambassador had been sponsoring for ten years, is in full swing by the time they arrive. The ambassador isn't close to the door, luckily enough. Emily knows they'll eventually see each other, that's the whole point of showing up at this thing after all. But she'll feel more confident once they've been inside for a little while at least, once they both have a glass in hand and she's talked to a few people.

It's sort of ridiculous, she knows, to be anxious about not doing the right thing. But she grew up this way, appearing at formal events, understanding how very critical it was for her to be perfect, to appear charming, to not be flustered, to not offend anyone or embarrass her mother. Even though she's been out of her mother's house for close to two decades and she's considered a competent adult the government pays to carry a gun, she still can't help that deeply ingrained anxiety that she do the right thing, be the right person.

"Why, Emily, who do you have with you?" The familiar, cultured voice brings her out of her head and back into the room. She barely manages to suppress a groan when she sees the figure in neon pink chiffon bearing down on them. Some of her tension must have telegraphed, because she feels Rossi's arm lightly slide across her lower back, the skin-warmed material of his sleeve gliding over the exposed skin.

"Mrs. Cooley, hello." Emily hides her grimace as the older woman leans in to kiss her cheek, the smell of gin floating just under the Chanel No. 5.

"Emily!" She draws back and gives Emily a look full of rebuke. "I've been telling you to call me Gail for twenty years. Always so polite and well mannered."

Emily manages a smile and turns to Rossi. "Gail Cooley, David Rossi."

"Oh! The writer? Really?" Her tone goes beyond arch and Emily sighs, silently she hopes, but evidently not completely motionlessly, since she feels a slight squeeze at her waist as Dave moves to shake Gail's hand. "My son said he had met you after poor Matthew died. I nearly disowned John for not getting an autograph, but he swore he didn't realize you were _that_ David Rossi." She hasn't let go of his hand since Rossi offered it and Emily is getting an uncomfortable feeling.

"I'm flattered you even know who I am." Somehow, without looking the least discourteous, Rossi manages to extract his hand.

"Know who you are? Of course! I have all of your books. I wish I had one with me now, I'd get you to sign it for me. I've been a fan of yours for _years._" Somehow the way she says years makes it sound more like centuries and she turns to Emily. "Maybe I could send one with John the next time you see each other? He says he's tried to catch up with you but you always seem to be on a case." She gives Rossi a brittle smile. "They were childhood sweethearts, you know."

Emily knows Rossi suspected John of being the unnamed component in the story of Italy, Matthew, the pregnancy and the abortion, but he's never asked. Thanks to Gail Cooley he'll never have to. Emily closes her eyes briefly then reopens them.

Gail's face, as she turns back to Emily, morphs into a look somewhere between chagrined and reproachful. "It seems like such a shame to not maintain a relationship that's several decades old. Especially since fate has brought the two of you to the same place at this point in your life."

Emily is contemplating the least polite way, without being outright rude, to disabuse Gail Cooley of her matchmaking efforts when Rossi pulls her slightly closer to his body. "We'll certainly have to clear an evening to see John if it's that important, sweetheart."

Only the fact that she's worked undercover a number of times in her career, and is therefore astoundingly good at not reacting to the unexpected, keeps her from bursting out laughing at not just the words, but the completely devoted air with which Rossi says them.

"I know." She looks at him and smiles sweetly, keeping Gail Cooley in her peripheral vision. "We should, it just seems we never have enough time...alone."

He's not quite as good as she is, she thinks as she notices the twitch at the corner of his mouth, but the smile she's giving him covers all kinds of sins and she is pleased, in a slightly evil way, to see Gail Cooley's face fall.

Rossi, despite his slip, is not to be outdone. With a smoothness that is more than admirable, he brings her hand to his mouth and places his lips against her knuckles and lets them linger. Emily manages to soften her face into what she hopes is a dreamy expression, yet, beneath the act she is cataloging the feel of his lips against her skin, the tickle of the edge of his whiskers and she wonders if it would feel the same against her own lips. She's flicking through her memories, trying to recall if she's ever kissed a man with facial hair. Aside from one kid in college with what she would call more facial scraggle than facial hair, she doesn't think so.

His eyes bright with mischief, Dave entwines their fingers. "I know, darling, but we just can't keep shutting out the world." He turns to John's mother. "Since they were sweethearts he can give me some pointers on what not to do wrong, so I don't lose Emily."

"Well, um." The woman clears her throat. "I just hope that you'll...maybe the next time you're available you could give John a call. I know he'd love to see you." She's a little flushed and a little fluttery and Emily thinks it's a very good thing it was her husband who'd made a career in the Foreign Service because Gail would have sucked at it. "It was a great pleasure to meet you Mr. Rossi. Lovely to see you again, Emily," she says a little stiffly and she walks away, back ramrod straight.

Rossi makes a humming noise. "She didn't really sound like it was a pleasure or very lovely."

"Not really." Emily grins at him and threads her arm through his. She hesitates for a minute, but then decides there's nothing left to hide. "I don't know how much she knows about what went on in Italy but since that posting she appears to have decided that having Ambassador Prentiss's daughter as a wife would enhance both John's resume. Not to mention what it would do for his father's."

His brow crinkles and they begin moving through the crowd. "You don't think it's you she's interested in for her son? Just the ambassador's daughter?"

Laughing, Emily shakes her head. "Trust me, no." There are waiters circulating with champagne but they've both been to enough of these things to know the easiest way to get Rossi's Scotch is to make it to the bar across the room.

"As far as Gail is concerned, it's not about me at all." Nodding to an elderly woman a few feet away, she mouths, _Hello_ as they continue towards the bar. "When this campaign started I was gawky, rebellious and the absolute antithesis of what a mother would want for her son. My only saving grace was my last name." Raising her hand, she wiggles her fingers at someone across the room, receiving a smile and an enthusiastic wave from a dark skinned man in a turban.

"Well, that's certainly not true now. She _and_ John must have seen you're way more than a gawky, rebellious teenager."

Snorting inelegantly, she gives his arm a friendly squeeze. "Whatever Gail's criteria are, I'm still pretty sure the only one that matters is being an asset to John and his career."

Finally making it to the bar, Rossi leans against it while they wait for one of the bartenders to notice them. "What about John?"

"John? What about John?"

Dave cocks his eyebrow. "He didn't seem to think you were gawky or care if you are a little rebellious."

Rolling her eyes, Emily contemplates hitting him, just a really good _thwack_ to the arm, but decides this isn't the best setting for that. Instead, she settles for a dry tone. "I don't think so."

He holds up his hands in a defensive gesture. "I'm just saying, you're not the same person you were at fifteen, neither is he."

Emily sucks her cheeks in and narrows her eyes in his direction. "I didn't know you were so interested in resolving my adolescent relationship issues."

"It's not about your adolescence at all..." He pauses as the bartender approaches. "Scotch, neat, please. Emily?"

"Shiraz."

The bartender nods and walks away.

"Shiraz?" Dave questions.

"The caterer she usually uses is Australian and has a really amazing Shiraz." Then, she points a finger at him. "Nice try. Continue."

Eying the oversized brandy snifter being used as a tip jar a foot or so down the bar, he fishes in his pocket for his money clip. "It's not about your adolescence. He seemed genuinely interested in you last year, beyond the resolution of Matthew's death." He peels off a few bills then replaces the clip.

"Residual guilt, I'm sure. You know as well as I do when someone close to us dies the mating instinct tends to go into overdrive." The bartender slides a stemmed glass in front of Emily and places Rossi's Scotch carefully on a napkin in front of him. They both murmur their thanks and Rossi extends his arm to drop the bills into the snifter. "If he appeared attracted to me it was probably more a reaction to the circumstances than any real connection he felt to me."

"And you?" He sips. "How did you feel about him?"

She only means to brush him off, but her voice comes out haughty and a little hard. "I didn't realize I'd agreed to be profiled."

Shaking his head, he reaches out and squeezes her fingers where they're resting on the bar. "It's not that all. I think it's your turn to tell me to shut up."

Sighing, she squeezes back. It's still a place where she guards her heart, where defensiveness is automatic. She's momentarily forgotten that it's not necessary where Rossi is concerned. "I...he's part of my past. And, sadly Gail is right; the way I grew up wasn't exactly conducive to long-lasting friendships. There's a certain nostalgia there. But in the end, it was Matthew who was my friend, Matthew I was close to. And it was Matthew who saved me." She moves her hand to her wine glass, turning it idly in a circle. "John. Well, I hope he finds peace and happiness in his life."

"Gail's going to be awfully disappointed," Rossi says mournfully.

"You're an ass," Emily says conversationally and salutes him with her glass.

The ambassador approaches them forty-five minutes later, cutting through the sea of silk, taffeta and tuxedos to where they are standing. They've been playing a ridiculous game of profiling the strangers around them, amusing themselves by seeing who could make up the most outrageous past or motivations for the crowd: _"Woman in red satin. Totally a spy." "Really? What country?" "No country. Corporate espionage; trying to get the recipe for the crab puffs." "Completely devious. She looks like a middle aged socialite who just had a face lift because she's afraid her husband is having an affair with his PA." "See? Brilliant disguise...she fits right in."_ Elizabeth Prentiss is a lifetime expert at hiding her emotions and reactions, so Emily really has no idea what her mother thinks of Rossi and, more importantly, Rossi as her daughter's escort as she approaches them.

She's the epitome of elegant, as always; she's wearing a floor length dress in a rich golden color that Emily is pretty sure is Vera Wang and Emily spares a moment to hope she looks half as good as her mother when she's her age. "Emily." Her mother holds both hands out and Emily gives her the one not holding her wineglass and submits to both of her cheeks being kissed, as if it were a delightful surprise that she had shown up, rather than being parentally mandated.

"Mother," Emily responds with affection. Command appearance or not, every day she does her job, she becomes more aware of the passage of time and the capriciousness of fate and she is genuinely glad to see her mother.

Elizabeth draws back and eyes her daughter. "You look lovely, Emily."

"Thank you." Turning slightly, she gestures toward Rossi. "Mother, this is David Rossi. Dave, my mother, Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss." She feels a little silly using the formal introduction, but etiquette was drilled into her from the time she was tiny until it was as automatic as breathing.

Dave gives his most charming smile and takes Elizabeth's proffered hand. "Ambassador. It's very nice to meet you."

"No, the pleasure is mine, Mr. Rossi." She gives him a charming smile of her own. "If it weren't for your books I would have no idea what Emily's work at the BAU was like."

Rossi's gaze shifts from mother to daughter, obviously trying to decide if there is some hidden meaning behind the words. While Emily would have bristled at the remark ten years ago, today she knows her mother is not digging, she's just finding a way to make a connection with someone she just met.

"While I'm flattered you've read my books, trust me when I say there's not a single indication in those books of exactly how valuable Emily is to the team." His tone is warm and sincere and the ambassador gives another smile, one of genuine pleasure. Emily feels herself flush under the praise.

"Dave is being kind," she begins, but then notices Rossi's look has gone from pleasant to blank to calculating in just a matter of seconds. "Dave?" she asks.

Completely inappropriately, Rossi slips an arm around Emily and her mother and begins walking them through the crowd.

"Rossi?" Emily tries again, practically feeling her mother bristling from the other side of his body.

"Just smile and pretend nothing's wrong, ladies," he says through his own put-on smile.

The ambassador does just that, raising her hand to several people as they continue toward the edge of the crowd. Whether it's following his direction or the desire to avoid a scene, Emily isn't sure. Sotto voce, Elizabeth leans toward the man between them, "What is going on?"

"Do you have security personnel here?" he counters.

"Of course." The ambassador is still smiling, but Emily doesn't miss the stress under her voice.

"Any of them posing as waiters?" Rossi asks as they reach the perimeter of milling people.

"Not that I'm aware of," Elizabeth answers. "You saw something?"

Rossi draws in a breath, "Waiter with a gun under his shirt, he was tracking you through the crowd." He releases both women and steps in front of them. "Don't turn around."

Emily grabs her mother's hand but speaks to Rossi. "How do you want to handle it?"

"In this big a crowd, I'd rather not try to take him out without a weapon." He looks at the ambassador's pale face. "Can you get one of your security guys to meet me here? I'll point him out."

She nods stiffly. "Certainly."

"Prentiss, maybe see if there's a smaller room where your mother can wait until we have this contained?"

Emily wants to argue, but she knows he's right. It's not like she has her gun, either. Or that she's going to be very good at chasing someone in this dress, not to mention the heels.

"Come on, Mother. Let's get in contact with security and get you somewhere safe." She puts an arm around her mother, while watching Rossi's face.

He gives her a slight, reassuring nod.

They begin to step away, but the ambassador turns back. "Agent Rossi, if you can do this...quietly? I would appreciate it."

Rossi smiles. "I'll do my best, ma'am."

Elizabeth nods and allows Emily to lead her away.

There's a member of the security detail standing less than thirty feet away trying-and failing abysmally-to look unobtrusive. Emily gives him a quick rundown, points out Rossi and waits to hear him call on his headset before she nods and moves her mother to a small room to the side of the ballroom.

Elizabeth sits on one of the velvet-covered sofas, her face neutral, posture rigid. Emily is a bit frustrated to see there is no lock on the door and thinks about leaving her mother alone to go in search of security to guard the door, but decides against it. She makes a quick circuit of the room, closing the curtains over the windows, blocking a second entry with a straight-back chair under the dual door knobs. She debates using one of the curtain ties to secure the double doors they entered through, then rejects the notion. Instead, she stands sentry, straining to hear anything out in the ballroom beyond the babble of social conversation and the distant strains of the band playing _How Can I Remember?_ After a few minutes there's a knock at the door and her mother starts.

"Ambassador? Agent Prentiss?"

The rich baritone is not one Emily recognizes. "Who is it?"

"Clive Pierce, ma'am. Security detail."

Emily looks to her mother for verification; when the ambassador nods, Emily opens the door. Gratefully, she notes the man is large and well-muscled, with the added bonus of having his credentials on display. "Yes?"

"Agent Rossi sent me. I'm going to make sure no one disturbs you until the situation is resolved."

Heaving a sigh, Emily gives him half a smile. "Thank you."

Now that Emily knows Clive Pierce is standing between them and any armed waiters, she moves to sit in one of the chairs beside the sofa, then immediately stands again. "Maybe I should..."

"Sit, Emily." The ambassador smiles tightly. "They either have it under control or they don't. But you're not equipped to help and I would feel much better knowing you're here with me."

Nodding, knowing she's right, Emily sits, carefully smoothing her dress as she does so. The silence stretches out between them, straining against the bonds of time. Part of it is the situation and part of it is her usual awkwardness around her mother. She does manage not to jump when the ambassador begins speaking.

"I'm very grateful Agent Rossi is so observant."

Emily lets out a tense breath. "Me, too." Out in the field she never feels this wired and anxious, she's always focused and confident. But here and now she feels useless and nervous. "Were you expecting any trouble?"

"What?" Clearly, Elizabeth is more distracted than she's letting on.

Emily grasps her mother's hand. "Were there any threats?"

"The same as always." The ambassador shakes her head. "Nothing unusual."

Emily was well into adulthood before she learned threats on the ambassador were a fairly regular occurrence; they were ever taken lightly but still were an understood and accepted part of the job. "Are you confident in your security detail?"

Waving a hand towards the ballroom Elizabeth says surely, "They're the best I've ever had."

Emily can't decide if that was a comfort or not. On one hand, the political world appeared far more dangerous than it ever had and Ambassador Prentiss' confidence was a good sign. But, if they really are the best she's had and someone still managed to get into the event with a gun, there was someone who was very committed to hurting her mother. If the ambassador was in fact the target.

And that's what's making Emily nearly climb out of her skin; she doesn't know anything. She hadn't seen the waiter, she hadn't seen the gun and she doesn't know what is going on out there now. Breathing deeply, she reminds herself Rossi is out there and she doesn't know anyone who would handle it better.

"I really feel a little silly." Her mother squeezes her hand and gives an embarrassed laugh. "Agent Rossi must think I'm such a shallow creature."

Emily's brow crinkles. "What do you mean?"

"He spotted the trouble and got us both out of harm's way and instead of thanking him, I asked him not to cause a scene." She gives Emily an earnest look. "I hope he understands I was more concerned with people panicking than the appearance of the thing,"

Patting her hand, Emily reassures her. "Dave has over twenty years in the Bureau, Mother. The worst thing he could have done out there was shout 'gun!' Believe me, not even the greenest rookie would do that unless the waiter had been about to draw the weapon. Besides, he knows about politics and appearances. Trust me, he knows it's part of the job."

Now, her mother's attention is fully focused on Emily. "Are you involved with him?"

_Damn._ Emily thinks. _I am slipping; didn't even see that one coming._ As tempting as the notion of playing with her mother is, now is probably not the best time for it. "No. We're just friends. Well, colleagues and friends."

"That's a shame," Elizabeth sighs.

Emily feels her eyes widen. "What?"

"He's a talented and charming man; accomplished and quite attractive." This time it's the ambassador who pats Emily's hand. "You could do much worse."

Blinking rapidly, Emily wonders briefly if she's stepped into some alternate reality before she manages to squeak out, "Mother!"

"What?" Elizabeth raises an eyebrow. "I'm your mother; I'm permitted to have opinions about these things. Just as you're permitted to ignore my opinions." She manages a severe look. "Now that you're an adult."

Suddenly grinning, Emily chokes out, "Good to know."

Her mother intertwines their fingers, smiling. "However, you should keep in mind I am under duress in this moment and may not be so generous the next time I have an opinion you don't share."

Emily nods. "Duly noted."

There's a perfunctory knock and the door knob rattles and Emily is on her feet, standing in front of her mother before the door is completely opened. She nearly wilts at the sight of Rossi standing there. "Dave," she breathes.

"All clear," he says, nodding at Emily.

The relieved sigh from Elizabeth reminds Emily she's body blocking her and she steps out of the way as her mother asks, "What happened?"

"When you disappeared he went to the security office off the kitchen to check the monitors for your location. Your detail got him there." He gives her a reassuring smile. "They had him on the ground before he could say 'please remove your knee from my kidney.' No one in the ballroom is any the wiser."

"Thank you," the ambassador breathes.

"Was he working alone?" Emily questions.

"They've taken him in and they'll interrogate him, but it looks like it." He eyed Ambassador Prentiss. "It seems it was more personal than political; he was fired from the embassy in Qatar shortly after you were posted there."

"I don't remember firing anyone while I was there." Elizabeth sounds perplexed.

"He was probably household staff, but took it as an insult from you no matter who fired him, because you were a woman in power. Just to be sure security is wanding all the wait staff as they come back to the kitchen. All the guests were wanded as they came in." He's leaning against the door in a casual stance that belies the tense situation of the last thirty minutes. "All of the staff were security cleared, but he was a last minute fill-in. They're figuring he hid the gun somewhere on premises before today."

Ambassador Prentiss rises and offers her hand to Dave. "Thank you so much, Agent Rossi. I am more grateful than I can say for your quick thinking." He takes her hand in his and she adds her left hand to the other side, holding his hand in both of hers. "I appreciate you watching out for Emily's safety most of all."

Rossi's lip quirks up sardonically. "You're welcome, but I also know Emily is more than able to take care of herself."

"Of that I have no doubt," Elizabeth assures him dryly. "Still, if you're this vigilant in social situations, I assume you're more so in the field. That is a comfort to me."

"Mother." Emily doesn't know if she's embarrassed or just surprised. It doesn't seem to matter though as both Rossi and the ambassador are ignoring her.

"The job is dangerous, but she's smart and capable. You don't have to worry. Plus, the whole team has each other's backs." His other hand comes up and cups the ambassador's hand where it rests over his.

Staring at the image in front of her, Emily is again contemplating the possibility that she has somehow shifted to an alternate universe. Her mother is not this demonstrative and Rossi is not this warm. She shakes her head to clear it and decides she needs more wine.

"Thank you, Agent Rossi, that makes me feel so much better." They drop each other's hands and Emily feels a little more normal. "Now," Elizabeth says, looking at Emily, "I'd suggest you leave before the speeches begin. It's going to be deadly dull and I think you've both tolerated enough for the evening."

"Mother, I think it's best if we stick around to make sure everything is all right." She looks to Dave. "Even though everything is under control..."

"Emily Amanda Prentiss." The voice is the same one Emily remembers from the unfortunate discovery of a half empty pint of vodka and a mostly full pack of cigarettes in Emily's underwear drawer when she was sixteen, only tinged with amusement. "Security is hyper-vigilant now, plus I'm willing to bet they've called in reinforcements. We've already ruined Agent Rossi's evening, let's not compound the sin."

"Ambassador..." Dave begins, but Elizabeth raises her hand.

"I appreciate the thought, but really, you should make good on your escape." Her eyebrows raise when Emily starts to protest again and the sound stops before there's enough to form a word. Regally, she shakes Dave's hand again and kisses Emily with more warmth than earlier. Then she sweeps from the room, takes the arm of Clive Pierce and sails back into the crowd, leaving Emily speechless and a little befuddled.

"Impressive," Dave murmurs, as he turns to stand by Emily as they watch her mother move away.

Emily pulls in a breath, then huffs it out. "To say the least."

He gives her a look that is a mixture of impressed and amused. "I think we've been dismissed."

Blinking, she nods. "I think you got the 'dissed' part right."

Bumping his arm against hers he says, "So, wanna go watch the interrogation?"

Turning, she quirks an eyebrow at him as a slow smile takes over her face. "You have the best ideas."

He nods. "I know."

"What'll happen to him?" Emily asks over a midnight burger at a greasy spoon on the way back to Rossi's place.

He wipes his fingers with a napkin. "They'll keep him in custody until he can be deported. He'll be flagged and put on every watch list. He won't get back in the United States."

Waving a french fry in his direction, Emily sighs. "That's a relief." She shakes her head. "The whole plot," because she refuses to even think the words _attempted assassination_, "seems like such a lot of trouble to go to as revenge for being fired."

He watches as she dredges the fry through a river of ketchup. "It wasn't about revenge as much as it was about honor. And it doesn't make sense." He shrugs. "Don't try to make it make sense. He was fired by the chief of staff of the embassy before your mother was even in residence. I'm willing to bet when they compile a full dossier on the guy you'll see a family history of mental illness."

"Don't you..." She drops the now ketchup-logged potato and pushes her plate away. "I don't know, don't you ever want normal? Don't you ever just get tired of how twisted and bizarre and just downright wrong people can be?"

Tilting his head towards his shoulder, he contemplates for a minute. "I guess sometimes I do. Maybe that's why I retired; the whole time I was out there doing book tours and consults I kept wondering if I was doing the right thing, you know?"

At her questioning look, he shrugs and continues, "We had a run of about a dozen cases before I retired where we couldn't save anyone. We were always one step behind and while we got all of the bastards, we didn't get them before they got another victim. And that worked on me. A lot. Not feeling like I could help anybody." Sitting back against the booth, he made a helpless gesture with his hands. "Do you remember Darrel Lloyd?"

"Yeah," she nods. They had studied that one at the Academy. "He worked through central Florida, kidnapping, raping and killing blond-haired, blue-eyed boys. You caught him by baiting him in the press."

"That was about five years before I retired. We caught him within an hour of his last kill. The kid's body was still warm. I could never shake that one. Kept thinking if I'd worked a little harder, gone without a little more sleep, I could have saved that kid. It was probably the beginning of my burnout." He looks haunted for a moment and she has to suppress the urge to reach out and touch his hand.

"So, I retire and go on the book tours. I was making a run through Florida, and this woman showed up at a book signing with her sixteen year old son in tow. She thanked me." He half smiles. "Her son was blond haired, blue eyed and would have been exactly the type Lloyd went for when he was hunting. And, no, there's nothing to say he would have ever found this particular kid, but it did make me feel better about catching these guys. We might not always save the last victim, but there are so many people we save who could have been victims."

He sends her a self deprecating smile. "My enormous ego aside, I know I'm good at this. You are, too. We might not know all the names or faces of the people we save, but we are saving lives. Remembering that helps."

"Thanks," she smiles. "I'll try to keep it in mind." She inclines her head as the waitress stops to refill her water then slides away on soft-soled shoes. "Did I thank you? For saving my mother's life?"

Rossi pushes his plate away and rests his folded arms on the table. "I doubt he would have gotten to her. What I saved your mother from was a ruined ball."

"I think she would disagree, but thank you for whatever. She will, by the way, be on the phone with me tomorrow asking me what she can do to express her gratitude."

The grin he gives her could only be classified as evil. "She could ask her daughter if she'll go to my niece's wedding with me."

She feels her mouth drop open and snaps it closed. "You set me up."

He holds two hands up in supplication. "Just the going to the ball part. The crazy guy with the gun was a bonus."

"You set me up," Emily repeats incredulously. "Saying you'd take me to this thing was way out of proportion to finishing your paperwork. And you knew I'd know that and know I'd owe you." She stabs her index finger in his direction. "This was entrapment."

He smoothes a hand over his beard and it's like he's smoothing his expression into one of reproach; the only indication he is not really hurt at her reaction is his twinkling eyes. "I wasn't going to force your hand. I just figured if you didn't want to go to this thing alone for the same reasons I don't want to go to my niece's wedding alone I should help you out. You know, let you know I get it, because I not only have a mother, I also have five sisters. That's six times as many people trying to fix me up if I show up somewhere alone." His voice is nearly mournful and she thinks he missed his calling; he should have been an actor instead of a profiler.

"Oh." She picks up her water glass and sips. "You are good."

Sticking out his lower lip slightly, he somehow he manages to look pathetic without looking ridiculous.

Shaking her head, she concedes. "All right. But, just so you know, it's the crazy guy with the gun that did it, not your pouty lip."

Grinning, he watches the waitress approach. "It's the results that matter, Prentiss." He grabs the check as the young woman slides it onto the table's edge. "Two weeks from today. It's in Saint Michaels on the Eastern shore. I'll pick you up at noon?"

"I hate you," she says flatly. "Give me the check."

"Paying for your hamburger is the least I can do for entrapping you." Peeling some bills from his money clip he doesn't notice as she looks at him; his bow tie is untied and his collar is open. He's casual and elegant at the same time and Emily thinks about her mother saying he is "quite attractive." It's true, she realizes; she's always been aware he's a nice looking man, but she acknowledges the truth of those words looking at him now. David Rossi is a _very_ attractive man.

Suddenly, she realizes he's caught her staring. "Something wrong?"

Shaking her head, she grabs her purse and slides out of the booth. "Just plotting revenge."

"Crazy guy with a gun, Prentiss." He drops some bills on the table and stands.

She nods. "That's one option."

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:** FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** During the bidding for **help_haiti**, the amazing and talented **wojelah** was kind enough to bid on and won my fic offering. Previously posted on LiveJourrnal

Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from one of the poems she provided as a prompt Japan by Billy Collins.

**smittywing** and **smacky30** have been unbelievable cheerleaders and betas through this process; I'm sure I have driven them to the brink of insanity several times (and they're not done yet *cue maniacal laughter*). They are amazing and generous women and I am so fortunate they are patient with me. If there's anything you like in here, one or both of them probably deserves the credit.

* * *

Remembering his comment the night of her mother's event, Emily wears a red knee-length dress the day of his niece's wedding. It's a nice party dress, perfectly appropriate for an afternoon wedding and evening reception and thankfully, it goes well with Rossi's black suit. It fits well and looks good on her without being overtly sexy. She's gratified and relieved by Dave's appreciative nod; he seems to think it's right, too.

They've been on the road a little over an hour when she asks, "Does your niece live in St. Michael's?"

He grunts. "She actually lives in Philadelphia, but I gather the bride and groom spent a romantic weekend there when they were first falling in love."

She laughs at his flat tone of voice. "Is that too romantic for a serial spouse?"

Expelling a breath, Dave shakes his head. "Despite what you may think, Prentiss, my failure to remain married does not mean I have lost my belief in love or romance. Or marriage."

Angling her body towards him a little, she holds up a hand in apology. "Sorry. No offense meant." She watches him frown at the windshield and she decides on a change of subject. "Does your family still live in Commack?"

"My mother lives with my oldest sister just outside of Philadelphia. My other sisters all live within an hour of her. Spouses and jobs and transfers." He shrugs, but she doesn't miss the way his body seems to lose tension when he speaks of his family. "You know how it goes, but none of them want to get too far from Mama. The nieces and nephews are spreading further out, but nobody is in Commack anymore."

"Anything I need to know before we get there?"

"Yeah. I guess we're too far for you to jump out and walk back." He slides her an amused glance. She knows he's joking but still can't help the jump of nervousness in her stomach.

But he doesn't have to know that. "I'm listening."

"My sisters are vicious, vicious women. They're like wolves. Dolce & Gabbana-clad wolves. No, actually, that's maligning wolves. Wolves are frightened of my sisters."

Turning incredulous eyes to him, she's not sure whether to laugh or not. "Rossi!"

He holds up a hand without taking his eyes off the road. "I love them dearly, but once they see you are still of childbearing age, they will surround you and try to convince you to marry me and give them another generation of Rossis to ruin the way they ruined me. I will try to provide you with a torch and a tranquilizer gun before the reception."

The combination of snorting and sputtering she's doing is not dignified, or even _normal_, and she tries to contain it, but she can't quite. "Wouldn't it have been smarter to ask someone that wouldn't give them, um, false hope?"

Rossi is grinning. "Nah, you already owed me and it's sort of fun to watch them flutter."

"Wolves don't flutter," she points out dryly.

He makes a knowing sound. "My sisters will take one look at you, calculate the number of fertile years you have and begin stalking you like wolves stalking a brown-eyed doe. Trust me, they'll be fluttering on the inside; the prospect of a fresh kill makes wolves flutter."

Shaking her head, she shifts in her seat. "So, to get them really going, I should mention the ticking of my biological clock?"

His eyebrows climb. "I will hunt you down like a dog."

Gleefully, she adjusts the seat belt to face him more comfortably. "I could tell them of my deep desire for dark-eyed babies."

"Like a rabid dog, Prentiss."

"But Dave, don't you want to make your sisters happy?" Her innocent query earns her a glare that makes her understand the phrase "upon pain of death" but she continues to laugh rather helplessly.

"My sisters, God love them, will probably never give up hope. You could tell them you have no interest in having children and have had your tubes tied and they would start talking to you about adoption." He sounds both fond and exasperated. "I'm the youngest and the only boy. When I said they wanted another one to ruin, I meant it; my sisters are responsible for planting the seeds of the arrogant asshole I grew into."

Emily chokes a little. "Rossi."

Checking his mirrors, he changes lanes, easily gaining speed and beginning to pass the line of cars in the right lane. "Prentiss, I have a lot of faults, but a lack of self-awareness is not one of them."

"I don't think you're an asshole." She shakes her head. "I've never thought that."

His gaze is on the road in front of him, but she sees the corner of his mouth lift in a smile. "Even when I'm treating you like a pain in the ass?"

The conversation in his kitchen the night of the charity ball comes back to her. "Oh, God, Rossi, I was babbling. I told you I was nervous."

Rossi shakes his head. "I know, but the thing is you weren't wrong." Quickly checking over his shoulder, he moves back to the right lane. "When I first came back I don't think I was necessarily in the right place mentally. I think I did a lot of inconsiderate things, not really thinking about you, any of you, and what it really meant to be part of a team. I'm a little too goal-oriented for my own good sometimes." His tone is even, reasonable and she realizes he has really thought about what she said.

"Look, Rossi." She takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the leather and the scent of Rossi's cologne. "Dave, I'm not saying it was an easy transition. But I meant what I said the same night I managed to put my giant foot in my big fat mouth. You have never treated me with anything but courtesy and respect. I was being flip."

"Flip or not, I meant what I said, you weren't wrong. But when you came to Indiana you showed me what it was to be part of a real team." His voice remains even and she has the distinct impression that he will not let this go until he's said what he needs to say. "I like to think I learn from my mistakes and I've tried to learn from that one. I've always believed actions meant more than words, so I've tried to model my actions to reflect my evolution. But words are important too and I'm not sure I ever thanked you."

Thinking about a cup of coffee and an empty lot and pressuring Hotch to make a phone call to the Vatican, she has to swallow past the lump in her throat. Gently, she reaches out and touches his arm, letting her hand linger. "Yeah, you did."

"Good." He lifts his hand off the wheel and touches her hand where it lays on the opposite arm. His hand is warm and his fingers are long, and the sight of them covering hers causes her stomach to do a little flip. "Thank you."

Pulling his hand away, Dave puts it back on the wheel and, with a surprising feeling of reluctance, Emily removes her hand from his arm. There's silence in the car for a few minutes; it's not awkward, but it is more than just a companionable moment. Then Emily says, "So, Dolce & Gabbana-clad wolves, huh?"

He nods sagely. "Well, all except Teresa."

"Teresa?" she questions. Thus far he hasn't given names to any of them.

"My middle sister, Teresa." His tone holds a wealth of affection and Emily knows despite his protestations, he is extraordinarily attached to his family.

"She's not a wolf?"

"Ha! Hardly. She's the most vicious one." Rossi shoots her a glance. "She just isn't clad in Dolce & Gabbana; she's usually wearing her habit."

Her mouth opens, but no words come out for a few seconds, "Habit? As in _habit?_"

"As in the uniform of a bride of Christ," he smirks. "She appears sweet, so, don't be fooled. She'll lull you into a false sense of security then cut you off at the knees."

"You." She points at him. "You are having way too much fun trying to scare me. Has it occurred to you that, as I am unlikely to see any of your relatives ever again, I can say or do anything I feel like and leave you to clean it up at your next family gathering?"

Rossi simply grins. "That's the beauty of you, Prentiss. You'll threaten me but when faced with the reality of my sisters and my mother, you will be polite and sweet. You will never once make it look like we are more than friends and at the same time, you won't embarrass any of them by disabusing them of the notion you're on your way to being the fourth Mrs. Rossi."

Huffing, Emily suddenly feels like she's been had in a major way. But she also knows he's right. "You're a bastard, David Rossi."

He takes his eyes from the road for a minute and quirks a smile at her. "Is that a step up or down from being an asshole?"

Completely exasperated, she leans her head against the leather head rest. "What, exactly, did I do to get myself into this?"

"Oh, come on; quit pretending you're not going to be a good sport about this." He's facing forward but she can still see the grin on his face. "There will be good wine and good food. You'll get to be fawned over by my sisters, get to meet my mother and you can add all of that knowledge to your mental profile of me."

He's right and there's no pretending he's not. Finding out more about Rossi would have been a lure even if she hadn't owed him the favor. She's also aware any reticence on her part is purely an act and, what's more, he knows it. It's no secret to anyone that her childhood was not filled with a lot of warmth. While she knows her parents loved her then and love her now, they're just not demonstrative people. Being an only child, always moving from one country to another, well, there was no time for her to create a family even if it had been something to occur to her.

She wouldn't say she was envious of Rossi's family exactly, but she's always been attracted to people with large families. Even though she never quite feels as though she belongs, she likes the warmth and the noise and the sense of closeness and belonging there seems to be at large family gatherings.

There's a small traffic jam that almost makes them late. The incense is already mingling with the scent of the flowers on the altar as they're sliding in to the third pew from the back pew on the bride's side of the church scant minutes before the ceremony is set to begin.

Surreptitiously, Dave points out four of his sisters sitting in two different pews with husbands, children and in two cases, grandchildren surrounding them. One of them spots him and the news of his arrival sweeps through the family in an almost comical wave. Then a tiny elderly woman, grandmother of the bride, Dave's mother, is seated and Emily notes the way Dave beams at her. Then, the fifth sister, mother of the bride, is seated and the wedding mass begins.

It's been a long time since Emily's been to a church service other than a funeral and she's forgotten how soothing and beautiful the mass can be. The church is crowded and there is very little personal space to be had. She can't help but be aware of Rossi beside her, his thigh nearly touching hers, his voice when he responds to the priest, his head bent in prayer, the golden light of the afternoon sun touching his hair with a gentle fire, his hand a heavy courtesy on the small of her back as they rise from the kneeling bench. For all they've shared it seems unexpectedly intimate to be observing him in these moments, to be sharing this with him. Rossi, on the other hand, appears to have no feelings of vulnerability about having her with him; which, when Emily thinks about it, she decides is flattering.

After the ceremony is over and the bridal party has processed out of the church there is a crush of people on Dave from the diminutive Sister Teresa to a toddling little girl with dark curls in a peach organza dress. Over a dozen relatives are introduced to Emily in overwhelmingly quick succession, including the four sisters (Rosalie, Sophia, Teresa, Gabriella) that are not the mother of the bride (Francesca). It's a rush of names and greetings and laughter, everyone clamoring for Dave's attention, though they are joyfully including Emily in the chaos until the wedding director asks them to clear the church so the bridal party can take photos. They exit the church, Dave with one hand at Emily's back and the curly-haired toddler in his other arm, verbally beating back the crowd. "You'll have time to question Emily at the reception. Let's clear out; Fran will kill us if we cause the photographer to charge her for another hour."

The horde of Rossis, as Emily thinks of them (though in reality she knows Dave is the only Rossi) moves out of the church and they are herded towards the cars to head to the reception to await the bridal party. Dave and Emily end up exchanging the toddler (who gives Dave a wet kiss on the cheek at the handover) for three teenagers (one nephew, one great-niece and one great-nephew) and drive to the reception with the three teenagers firing questions at the both of them about their latest cases from the backseat.

"They had one in the papers, Uncle Dave, the crazy lady that dressed them up like dolls before she killed them." Michael, Emily thinks his name is. He's probably fifteen and the grandson of Rosalie, the oldest of the Rossi siblings.

"That was weird," laughs Anthony, an awkward nineteen (or maybe twenty) and, if she's remembering correctly, the son of Gabriella, the youngest of the sisters.

Sadly, Emily is unable to remember the girl's name or which sub-family group she belongs to, but she clearly hears the muttered, "Freaks" from the back seat. The only variance Emily has seen in her facial expressions has been from bored to angry with the exception of a fleeting look of happiness when Rossi slipped an arm around her shoulders and asked if she wanted to ride to the reception in his car. Unfortunately, the look had not lasted past the two boys inviting themselves along.

"Michael, the term in this case is disturbed." Dave curves his body over the steering wheel to check for oncoming traffic. "She didn't set out to kill anyone. That was a sad one, wasn't it, Em?"

"You catch serial killers, too?" Anthony is testing the limits of the seat belt as he leans forward.

Emily looks over her shoulder to the backseat. "I'm in the BAU with your Uncle Dave."

"Cool." This comes from the girl, who, surprisingly, sounds sincere.

"Cheryl, Emily is a good person to talk to if you're still interested in the FBI." Rossi's voice is extremely casual. Too casual, Emily notes.

Turning in her seat, Emily smiles at the teenager. "You're thinking about the Bureau?" Probably sixteen or seventeen at the most, her hair is black and so is her heavily applied eyeliner; her dress is purple and Emily suspects it's the darkest color her parents would allow her to wear to her cousin's wedding.

"I was for awhile, but I don't know any more." There's a slight flush on the girl's cheeks and she's not meeting Emily's eyes.

"Well, that's understandable," Emily nods, "you've got a lot of time to decide on a career path. There are all kinds of options open to you."

"Yeah, I guess." The veneer of apathy is really quite thin.

"Yeah, you could always decide to be a serial killer, psycho," Michael jibes.

"Hey!" Rossi directs a severe look into the rearview mirror. "Show a little respect to your sister, Michael. I don't think your nonna would appreciate that."

_Well, that clears up the familial relationship,_ Emily thinks, _albeit awkwardly._

The boy blushes hotly. "Sorry, Uncle Dave."

Rossi turns and gives him a cocked eyebrow. "I don't think I'm the one who should get the apology."

"Sorry, Cheryl," Michael mumbles as Anthony snickers.

"Whatever," Cheryl replies, turning to the window and Emily notes Dave's sigh.

"You're a brave one."

Like almost every other guest at the reception, Emily is watching Dave dance with his mother.

When he'd introduced Emily to her, she gave Emily a frail hug and kissed both of her cheeks. Dave had seated Emily at the table his mother was occupying and they chatted briefly while watching the newly married couple's first dance. And though the woman had seemed delighted with her granddaughter's wedding, her eyes never strayed far from Dave for very long. Dave, for his part, made sure Emily had a glass of wine and facilitated the conversation between his mother and his colleague. But Emily noticed he kept his hand over his mother's, wrapping his long fingers around her spotted and wrinkled ones. She remembered his touch on her own fingers in the car and imagined the warmth must feel good on the older woman's cool skin.

When the general dancing began, he leaned close to Emily. "Will you be all right on your own for a few minutes?" When she nodded he led his aged parent onto the dance floor.

There is something so tender about the way he is leading her around the room. For her part, Angela Rossi openly adores her son, laughing up into his face, occasionally leaning her wrinkled cheek against his chest. The sight of such unguarded affection has more than one woman dabbing at her eyes and quite a few sons approaching their mothers to ask for a dance. Emily is smiling broadly, but has to admit, if only to herself, that her throat is a little thick at the sight of the great, gruff David Rossi sharing a slow turn around the dance floor with his ninety-year-old mother.

She's so caught up in the sight, she's unprepared for the voice at her elbow.

Looking up, she sees Rosalie standing beside her table.

Laughing a little nervously, Emily questions, "Brave?"

"Mind if I sit?" Her eyebrow quirks up in the same way Rossi's does and Emily grins.

"Please." She indicates the seat beside her and Rosalie slides into the chair. She's tall, not quite as tall as Dave, but maybe as tall as Emily. Her eyes are the same as Dave's (a good percentage of the family seems to have the same eyes) and she has the same cheekbones, but other than that Emily doesn't see a lot of resemblance.

"Uh," she groans as she sits. "Thank you. I'm getting too old for all of this running around and standing on my feet." She motions to a waiter, who immediately puts a glass of red wine in front of her. "Thanks," she murmurs as the waiter moves off and she takes a sip from the glass. "So, like I said, you're a brave one."

"I am?"

The woman slides a knowing glance in Emily's direction. "Meeting the whole clan all at once. We're the equivalent of the population of a small country." Two small boys tear past screaming. "A small, well-fed, _noisy country_. Now that we're starting on the fourth generation I have trouble keeping up with all the names. I'm thinking of just settling on a generic endearment like 'hon' for the boys and 'sweetie' for the girls. Think anyone will catch on?"

Laughing, Emily takes a sip of her own wine. "I'm willing to bet you can get away with it."

"It's a plan, then." She nods, toasting the air with her glass. "So, don't fret if you can't keep all the names straight and who belongs to who, you'll pick up on it eventually."

Emily feels a small stab of guilt that Rosalie thinks she'll be seeing more of her, that she'll be around long enough to learn everyone's names. She briefly considers letting Rosalie know she was here just as Dave's friend, but Dave's assessment in the car was correct; she doesn't want to embarrass his sister by telling her she's wrong about the nature of their relationship. Instead, she just gives a slight smile and says, "I'll have to trust you on that one."

"Do you smoke?" Rosalie asks apropos of nothing.

Emily shakes her head. "Um...no. I quit a long time ago."

Rosalie gives her a dry look. "You're not old enough to have stopped doing anything a long time ago." She wiggles her fingers. "I quit the day I found out I was going to be a grandmother. Decided I needed to be around to make sure my grandkids were spoiled just enough to give their parents enough hell to make up for _their_ teenage years."

Emily laughs and Rosalie smiles as she continues. "But I do miss it sometimes."

"At parties?" She thinks of her own occasional longing; not for the taste, but the soothing rhythm of it, the dependence on the inhale and exhale, the loss of awkwardness with something to do with her hands, the ability to blow a cloud of smoke and put up a veil between herself and the world.

"No." Rosalie takes another drink from her wine. "Usually during the interrogations of Davey's girlfriends."

It takes a minute, then Emily doesn't even have time to wonder what her face must look like before Rosalie starts laughing. "That's the best deer in the headlights look I have ever seen."

"I'm not..." she starts, then takes a breath and tries again. "We're, really...we're just friends."

Rosalie pats her hand. "I'm sure you are, Emily. Don't be so skittish. We're practically family."

Emily hears herself stutter. "We...we work together."

"I know! I think that's wonderful! Not sure how you're going to work it out when the babies start coming along, but I'm sure you've already got a plan. You modern women always do." The older woman gestures with her wine glass.

Shaking her head, Emily tries again. "No, I...really. We're team members and...and friends."

"I think that's great the way you young people like to develop the friendship part of the relationship. In my day, you got knocked up first then got to be friends, or not, with your husband over diapers and doctor bills." She levels Emily with a look. "I do expect the two of you to get married before you start having babies. I'm not looking for an announcement today."

"No, really, I..."

Finally, Rosalie holds up both hands grinning. "I'm just kidding, I swear." She laughs aloud and it's the same warm laugh Emily is used to with Rossi. "Whether you're his friend or his girlfriend, I don't care. I'm glad you're here. We don't get to see him enough and meeting a friend is an extra treat."

The emphasis on the word friend is enough to let Emily know Rosalie hasn't entirely bought the "just friends" concept, but as long as she's not in for any more talk about having babies, she's okay with anything else. Still, Emily's voice is a little shaky when she answers. "Thank you."

Rosalie pushes Emily's wine glass closer to her hand. "Drink. Didn't mean to scare you so bad."

"I wasn't..."

There's the eyebrow again. Rossi has nothing on his sister when it comes to facial expressions. "You were. But, it's good to know I can still inspire some good old fashioned anxiety in somebody's date. I was thinking I was losing my touch."

Looping a strand of hair behind her ear, Emily glances back at the dance floor. Rossi is now dancing with the mother of the bride and doesn't look as if he's anywhere near coming to rescue her. Oh, she was going to own him when this was over. No amount of good wine in the world - and it is good wine - is worth this. _He warned you,_ an inner voice sing-songs at her. _Shut up,_ she immediately tells that inner voice.

"So." Rosalie drains her glass and sets it on the table. "Did he give you the rabid wolves speech?"

Emily blinks. Then slowly, smiles. "He didn't say rabid."

Dave's sister nods. "Good to know we've moved up in the world. Wolves dressed in Donna Karan?"

"Dolce & Gabbana, actually," she supplies dryly.

"Please." Rosalie rolls her eyes. "Not all of us are millionaires."

"I don't know," Sophia says as she places three mostly full wine glasses on the table and slides into the chair beside Rosalie. "I could do with a wardrobe update. Though I'd prefer Versace to Dolce & Gabbana."

"You're too old for Versace," Rosalie says airily, pushing one of the glasses towards Emily and pulling one towards herself.

"One is never too old for good fashion." Sophia's nose goes up in the air in an expression Emily is sure is supposed to be haughty but is ruined by the twinkle in her eyes. "Besides, the wolves in designer duds speech is all your fault anyway."

"My fault? How is it my fault?" Rosalie's expression is a combination of incredulous and amused.

Sophia purses her lips at her sister. "Who was the girl between Maria and Sonia?"

"Bianca," Gabriella supplies as she sits on Emily's other side.

"Bianca!" Rosalie and Sophia intone together, voices perfectly matched in a mimic of a snobbery that causes Emily to cough out a laugh.

"She was a piece of work, that one." Rosalie winks at Emily.

Pointing an accusing finger in her elder sister's direction, Sophia sits back. "You scared her so bad she told Davey she'd never come to another family gathering."

"So, let's not do that to this one." The sisters who are the mother of the bride and the bride of Christ have materialized from the crowd to appear by the table. Emily is starting to think ninjas have nothing on these women. Francesca offers her hand. "Emily, it's nice to meet you. Thank you for coming."

Emily, suddenly feeling a little surrounded and the slightest bit overwhelmed, shakes her hand and says, "I'm happy to be here." Though right at this moment, she's not sure if that's strictly true.

"Sure you are." Sister Teresa hands Francesca one of the glasses of wine she's holding. "Dave's never let anyone come into our midst again without a detailed warning since the Bianca incident. I think he had the last one sign a waiver."

Gabriella snorts. "That wasn't a waiver, it was a pre-nup and the smartest move he ever made. I've never understood how such a smart man, who figures people out for a living, could be so bad at figuring out the women he sleeps with."

"Because, genius." Teresa taps the table with a finger. "He grew up with us, and we skewed his view of the women in all of his personal relationships."

Rosalie is acting offended, but even after such a short acquaintance Emily can tell it _is_ an act. "Then maybe you shouldn't have spoiled him so bad."

"Me?" Teresa gives her head a slow, incredulous shake. "Maybe you should have let his feet touch the floor before he was four."

"Me? Please. That one," Teresa points to Sophia, "treated him like her own personal baby doll and it was her goal in life that the baby never, ever cry."

Holding up a hand, Sophia nods. "I'll take my share of the blame, but I wasn't alone. I recall the two of you," she levels a look at Teresa and Francesca, "fighting over who got to watch him when Mama and Pop weren't around."

Gabriella looks around. "Who's got him now, by the way?"

Leaning her chin on her elbow, Francesca smiles. "I'm still better at watching him. John and Tony dragged him outside for a cigar."

"Well, that's kind of rude," Sophia huffs. "He should be in here protecting Emily from us."

"If you thought it was rude, then you probably shouldn't have sent your husband and mine to drag him off to enjoy a cigar." Francesca informs her older sister with a pointed look.

"Way to throw me under the bus, Fran." Sophia rolls her eyes. "Now Emily knows it was a set-up and Davey's not coming to her rescue."

Emily arches a brow. "Maybe I don't need rescuing."

The wolves that are the Rossi sisters, no matter what they're wearing, all look at her simultaneously. To their credit, it takes them almost thirty seconds to burst into laughter. "Like I said," Rosalie nods, "you're a brave one. Ladies?" The women raise their glasses and Emily follows. "To Emily." She tilts her glass, giving a wide, generous smile.

The others echo, "Emily," and drink.

Flushed and inordinately pleased, feeling like she's passed some unexpected and inexplicable test, Emily sips from her own glass.

"All right, Emily." Rosalie pulls her chair closer to the table and rests her arms against the white linen covering it. "Quid pro quo...for every David Rossi, author, profiler extraordinaire story we get, we will provide you with one Davey, baby of the family story. Embarrassing or blackmail-worthy material earns you extra points. You want to go first or should I?"

"Oh, please," Emily laughs, suddenly deciding she's having a very good time, "you first. I insist."

An hour later, quite pleasantly buzzed from the very good wine, Emily has traded stories of Rossi's unfortunate visit to Penelope Garcia's apartment and his subsequent talking to by Kevin Lynch, Reid following Rossi into the restroom, questioning him about the beginning of the BAU the first week Rossi was back, the unfortunate incident with Morgan, a hot latte and the front of Dave's jeans for tales of a six year old Dave attempting to beat up Sophia's seventeen year old boyfriend when the boy made Sophia cry, Davey's teenage collection of porn being found by Teresa and the story of the rather horrifying Bianca. Emily is just about to launch into the story of Rossi and Hotch's ill-fated interview with three strippers who misunderstood the purpose of being in the private room with the two agents, when Dave approaches the table.

"Prentiss!" His tone is somewhere between a bark and a groan. "That is classified information."

"I'm changing the names." She gives him wide, innocent eyes.

"I noticed you didn't change my name," he grumbles.

"You being an FBI agent is a matter of public record." She grins at him. "Don't you want your sisters to know about your glamorous life?"

His sisters are laughing, clearly enjoying themselves at his expense. He scowls around the table. "Did you get her drunk?"

"Don't be silly," Teresa sighs. "We just made a few trades."

"Damn."

Rosalie clucks her tongue at him. "Leave the girl alone, she's having fun with us."

"Rose." Dave's voice is affectionate as he bends to kiss his sister's cheek. "Your idea of fun would make Genghis Khan shit himself."

There's been just enough wine and just enough laughter that that line causes everyone at the table to break into uncontrollable gales. Emily's stomach already hurts from laughing with Rossi's sisters and she knows she's going to be sore tomorrow as her abdominal muscles contract.

When things die down, Dave shakes his head. "Sadly, I'm not here to save the tatters of my dignity." He looks at Emily. "I just got a call from JJ; they've identified a serial in Charleston. Wheels up at 7:00 a.m."

"Oh." Emily feels the sting of regret; generally, that there's another serial killer in the world, but more specifically that her time with the Rossi clan is over.

"Yeah, we need to head back to DC. I'm sorry." She's not sure who he's apologizing to; certainly not her, it's the job, it happens.

His sisters are making disappointed noises and, despite the news Rossi just delivered, he smiles. "I'll bring her back sometime so you devious women can continue whatever mischief you've gotten up to."

Everyone bids Emily goodbye with hugs and what appear to her to be genuine invitations to come back. When she inquires about telling his mother goodbye he tells her one of his nieces took her back to her room some forty-five minutes previous. She starts to feel guilty for not noticing, but Rossi reassures her. "She doesn't have it in her to be too social any more. It takes too much out of her. She doesn't make a big thing out of it; she just likes to slip away without a fuss."

As they're leaving, Dave spots Cheryl in the shadows. "Hey, you." He holds out an arm. "Hope you're not out here sneaking cigarettes."

The teenager slips under his arm and hugs his side. "Smoking is gross, Uncle Dave." She wrinkles her nose. "Especially cigar smoke."

"Well, I'm busted." Emily sees his arm tighten around the girl. "You get more like your nonna everyday."

The girl is smiling at him with obvious affection. "Why're you leaving so early?"

"Work," he says regretfully.

"Awww," she whines in such a teenage way, Emily has to bite back a laugh.

"Hey, you're gonna be all about catching the bad guys someday. You'll learn."

"I don't know," she says slowly, the dark look of before returning.

"Look." Rossi uses his arm on her shoulder to turn her so he's looking into her eyes. "I don't care what you do when you get out of school; you can go join the circus for all I care. But, if you're gonna join the circus, you make damn sure it's because _you_ want to join the circus, not because some high school loser thinks you should. You got me?"

Emily sees the tears pool up in the girl's eyes as she dives back into Dave's arms. He wraps her up, kisses her hair and rocks her gently back and forth whispering words of comfort Emily can't quite hear. Feeling a bit like an intruder, Emily takes a step back from the two of them, leaving them to this moment of pain and solace.

After awhile the girl pushes back from his arms, and he bends down to force her to meet his gaze. "Okay?"

Cheryl gives a watery sniff. "Yeah."

"I'm right about this," Dave says, his thumbs ghosting over the tear tracks on her cheeks.

She gives a fragile laugh. "You're right about everything."

Both of the eyebrows go up. "And don't you forget it."

Cheryl nods then turns to Emily, tentatively, "Can I, um, maybe e-mail you sometime about women in the Bureau?"

"Sure." Emily is already digging in her purse for a card. "You're welcome to call if you have questions you can't cover in e-mail." She hands the card over and is a little surprised when the teenager hugs her.

"Thanks," Cheryl says when she draws back.

Emily smiles. "Anytime."

"We've got to hit the road." There's no disguising the regret in his voice. He puts his hand under Cheryl's chin. "Fix your face before you go back in there. They'll think you're a raccoon."

Cheryl rolls her eyes like she's getting paid for it. "Yeah, yeah." That tone is back to perfectly pitched teenager and Emily's smile widens as she walks with Rossi to the car.

He's quiet the first thirty minutes, but Emily is okay with that. She doesn't know the specifics, but she knows enough to get a decent read on the situation. When his voice breaks the silence, it's as if they'd been having a conversation all along. "Rosalie's first husband...well, that was just a case of teenage romance gone wrong. She's twelve years older than me so I guess I was six when all Hell broke loose." His voice sounds slightly nostalgic, but his profile is serious.

"I didn't know what was going on then, but she was pregnant and in those days there weren't a lot of options for single girls when they got pregnant. So, she's a mother at eighteen. The kid she married ran out on her. I don't think she's heard from him since the day he left. She got her divorce and she has her daughter, Donna, and eventually she meets Joe, who is a helluva nice guy. He adopts my niece and he and Rosalie have a few more kids."

He takes a breath. "Donna grows up, gets married, has Cheryl and Michael. Turns out her taste in men is a lot like her mom's was when she was young and the guy turns out to be a louse. After her divorce, Rosalie and Joe help her raise the kids, but they can't stop her from dating losers. Loser number three or maybe it's loser number four," Emily sees his hands tighten on the wheel, the knuckles turning white, "decides it's okay to stick his hand down Cheryl's pants when Donna isn't looking. Cheryl was five when Donna caught him."

His teeth flash in a bitter smile. "Rosalie had to go bail her out of jail; she kicked the crap out of the guy. After he got out of the hospital, _he_ went to jail. But, I don't know, it's some kind of a wake-up call. She gets Cheryl into therapy, she moves back home with Rosalie and Joe and it looks like everything is going to be all right."

Rossi goes silent for a bit and Emily waits. "Donna died in a car accident when Cheryl was nine. Rosalie's been raising her and Michael. And she's done a great job...but the baggage of the abuse and losing her mother..." He clears his throat. "She's always had a hard time fitting in, sort of seemed a little disconnected from her peers. So, I started calling her sometimes and we started talking about the work and she said she might be interested in the Bureau." She sees him grit his teeth. "Then some punk-ass kid is trying to get into her pants and when she won't let him he goes around telling everyone she's a psycho interested in serial killers and it's just..."

"Oh, Jesus, Rossi." She can hear the pain in her own voice.

"Yeah." He nods, his voice bleak.

"It's not your fault."

His head shakes. "Isn't it?"

"Look." She shifts in her seat to partially face him. "Kids are jerks. They're vicious. How many times have we seen that? How many kids have turned into spree killers because they were bullied by their peers? How many times have we seen kids turn on someone, just so they're not the ones being turned on? She threatened his ego and he had to lash out."

She watches as he grits his teeth. There's frustration and anger there and Emily knows where they're aimed. They see so much of the grief people visit on each other and the guilt loved ones take upon themselves. When it's work, it's easy for them to say the only person responsible for the pain is the perpetrator. But when it's personal, it's hard for them to remember.

"Rossi," she blows out a breath. "If she were interested in comic books or science fiction or anything he would have found a way to make her a target."

His hands tighten on the steering wheel, gripping so hard his knuckles whiten. "She's a bright, beautiful kid and she can't seem to catch a fucking break." As she watches his right hand fists as if he's contemplating pounding the steering wheel, as if that could somehow inflict pain on the appropriate person.

Emily reaches across and grabs his hand and sandwiches it between both of hers, resting their joined hands on the console between them. "Yes, she did. She got some big breaks. She's got Rosalie and Joe. She's got a huge, loving family. She's got Uncle Dave." She keeps his hand in hers until she feels the fist uncoil and relax between her own. "Those are pretty good, huh?"

It takes a few seconds, but he nods. "Yeah." She feels his fingers move against hers and realizes rather than attempting to withdraw his hand, he has threaded their fingers together. Squeezing lightly, she sits back and tries not to notice that they remain holding hands until Dave has to stop for gas twenty miles outside of DC.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating: **Teen**/** FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** This fic is **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. She is generous and wonderful and I am very fortunate to have her as a friend. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan. Previously posted on LiveJournal.

**smacky30** and **smittywing** are both amazing women...they encourage me and kick my ass at the same time, they make me smile even when I'm feeling pretty stupid for how poorly I use punctuation. There aren't enough words to say how grateful I am for both of them lending me their talent. All of the best lines can be traced back to them.

* * *

Charleston is a nightmare.

There's no specific pattern to the murders and only four points are consistent: It's always a mixed race couple, they're always abducted from the streets, the woman is always raped multiple times and both are killed. The killer doesn't seem to have a preference for age or any other physical characteristic and he's not specifically targeting a type of mixed-race couple; sometimes the woman is black and the man is white, sometimes it's the other way around. In the first four, the method of killing varied widely, but small patterns have begun to emerge with the last four...the unsub is getting more controlled but more vicious.

Sometimes it's difficult to draw the lines between serial killer and hate crime, but the media frenzy is always merciless. JJ is getting knocked around by the press on a fairly regular basis, Morgan's eyebrows seem to be permanently knitted together and Hotch is getting more severe-looking with every passing hour. They've been there for three days when Reid's geographic profile comes together, and it's another thirty-six hours before Garcia's digging reveals a common factor in five out of the eight couples' history. There's a very upscale restaurant downtown where the couples had dined within a week of their murders. In the case of the last three, it was the night they were kidnapped.

Morgan gives Garcia hell for not finding the common thread sooner and Hotch sends him back to the hotel to cool his heels.

"One of them used a corporate card, another had a gift certificate and two of them paid cash," Emily informs Morgan when she and Dave drag him out to dinner after the team finally calls it a night. She takes the seat opposite him in the booth. "It's nearly impossible to track cash, Morgan, you know that."

He makes a grunting noise that might be an assent as Dave slides into the booth beside Emily.

"I think we've all gotten so used to Garcia pulling things out of thin air we forget sometimes there are things she can't find." Dave pulls his reading glasses out of his coat pocket and begins perusing the menu.

Morgan doesn't respond, he just sits with his arms crossed over his chest and looks pissed off.

"All right," Emily rolls her eyes. "Do we just want to pretend this elephant isn't in the room?"

"I'm thinking the stuffed mushrooms to start," Dave says as if she hasn't spoken. "Then steak."

Morgan continues to glower as the waitress approaches and Rossi orders a bottle of Cabernet, three glasses and the stuffed mushrooms.

"Two glasses for the wine," Derek grumbles. "Give me a beer. Whatever you have on tap that isn't light."

She nods and goes to put in the appetizer order and get their drinks.

"Look, Derek." Rossi sighs. "We all have cases that get to us, ones we identify with. And believe me, I'm aware I'm the poster child for bad behavior when things aren't moving quick enough to suit me."

Morgan starts to interrupt, but Dave holds up a staying hand. "You were out of line. It doesn't mean we don't get why this one hits home, but can you think of anybody on this team that would want to let you down _less_ than Penelope Garcia?"

Just for a second, Morgan looks absolutely stricken. "I'll call her and apologize."

The waitress sets Morgan's beer in front of him followed by two wine glasses, then she uncorks the bottle of wine.

The only sound is the slosh of the wine rushing from the bottle into the glasses. Emily waits for the waitress to finish pouring and walk away. "Apologize, yes. And I'm thinking you better bring her back some chocolate."

"Chocolate. Right." Derek relaxes a little and rests his folded arms on the table. "It's the kids." One of the couples, James and Kelly Thomas, had no known relatives and two children, a three month old girl and a four year old boy. It was their first night out after their daughter's birth.

Dave's already nodding. "Yeah. I know. It's harder for mixed-race kids to get adopted."

"One of the reasons Garcia took longer than usual to find the connection." Emily accepts one of the glasses from Dave. "She was searching for relatives. It turns out Kelly Thomas had changed her name to her stepfather's last name when she was in high school. Before she ever met James. Garcia found her father and stepmother, plus several half siblings in Ontario. The parents are on their way to take custody of the kids."

Morgan closes his eyes and huffs out a breath. "A lot of chocolate."

"Hmm." Rossi looks at him over his reading glasses. "I'd go with chocolate _and_ jewelry."

Emily gives him an elbow to the ribs and at Rossi's "oof" Morgan smiles for the first time since they forced him from his hotel room.

The waitress places the mushrooms on the table. As the aroma of garlic and butter rises from the plate in front of them, she takes their dinner order.

"So," Emily says, looking at Morgan. "I have a proposition for you."

"Heh." Morgan gives her a lascivious grin. "I always thought Dave here was more your type. Good to see you going for the humble, yet handsome."

Giving him her deadliest glare, she prays the heat she feels in her cheeks is not visible in the low light of the restaurant. "You are not funny, in case no one ever told you."

"Yeah, but I have other qualities to make up for that." He spears a mushroom cap and puts it on his plate.

Rossi smirks. "Good to know you don't stay down for long." Then he laughs when Morgan's eyes water from putting too big of a bite of a too hot mushroom in his mouth.

Emily ignores them. "The three kidnappings that happened the same night the couples were at Chrysanthemum were all Saturday nights."

"Yeah?" Morgan focuses on her.

"You should really ask me out to dinner this Saturday." She smiles.

Dave aims a sharp look in her direction and Morgan's brows come together again. "Today is Friday."

"Yeah and tomorrow is Saturday." The _duh_ is unspoken.

"Undercover on that short notice?" Morgan's shaking his head. "Hotch will never go for it."

"I gotta say," Dave puts in, "I'd agree with him. Less than twenty-four hours is not enough time to set up an undercover operation."

She huffs out a breath. "What undercover operation? It's dinner out. It's not like we're setting up identities or doing a sting." Tracing a finger over the table, she looks up through her lashes at Rossi to see how she's doing convincing him. "Morgan takes me to dinner, we look around, we have a meal, we take a little walk after. If we happen to do all of this wired, with several unmarked units within easy access, it's not like it's a real undercover operation."

"Emily," Rossi says dryly, "your innocent face needs some work."

"Dave, come on," she whines. "Hotch will be more likely to consider it if you're backing us."

"I haven't heard a convincing argument _to_ back you." He looks over the top of his glasses at her and she feels a funny flip in her stomach. She seriously needs to find a guy and get laid, she decides. When she's contemplating jumping a co-worker in the middle of a restaurant because he's wearing his reading glasses, it's time to find a real date.

Rossi's wearing his Senior Agent face; he doesn't bring it out often. Yeah, he has seniority and experience, plus he's arrogant to a certain degree, but he doesn't generally pull rank. He mostly treats the rest of them as peers and defers to Hotch.

"Is there a compelling argument against it?" she asks, looking first at Rossi, then Morgan.

"You think that is going to convince Hotch to give you the go ahead?" Dave shakes his head. "Please. By all means, make your case that way."

"Prentiss." Morgan leans forward, "We haven't had enough time to prep. We should look into the staff at the restaurant, see if we can pick up on where the couples went after dinner. If we haven't made any progress by next week, then we can talk to Hotch."

Emily is trying very hard not to pout. "Garcia went over the staff with a fine-tooth comb after you left. Nada."

"Seriously?" He sounds genuinely surprised. "No one has a criminal record?"

She gives a one-shouldered shrug as she helps herself to a mushroom. "One of the busboys has a prior for simple possession."

Morgan looks thoughtful as he takes a drink of his beer. "Simple possession is about as far from kidnapping, rape and murder as you can get."

"He was also on stage in a community theatre performance of Hair the night of the first kidnapping, thirty miles away from Chrysanthemum." Emily slices into the mushroom with her fork, mindful of Rossi being very silent beside her. "Three hundred and forty-five lovers of musical theatre can substantiate his alibi." She slides the bite into her mouth.

"What about after dinner?" Derek rubs his thumb down the condensation on his glass.

She shrugs as she chews, then swallows. "No one knew what any of their plans were, except in the case of the Thomas' sitter. The Johnsons were missing three days before anyone noticed. Carol Jones was reported missing when she didn't show up for work Monday; the detectives had to backtrack to find out she had a date with Dan Rivers and that he was missing." Taking a drink of her wine, she looks at Rossi out of the corner of her eye; she has a feeling she's winning Morgan over, but she hasn't budged Dave.

"So, now we have a starting point," Rossi says calmly. "We do the legwork." He gives Morgan a severe look. "We make Penelope happy in her work again and then we get her to follow leads and we figure out the pattern."

The waitress approaches the table with a large tray and places their food in front of them; a salad for Emily and steaks for Rossi and Morgan. She makes sure they have everything they need and the entire time, Emily feels frustration and resentment ratcheting tighter in her chest.

When the server walks away, Emily picks up the thread of the conversation. "And, in the meantime, there's a very good chance another two people will go missing this weekend and we'll find their bodies three days later."

"Emily." Rossi sighs. "It's like this sometimes, you know that. We can't move forward until we have more pieces of the puzzle. It's sad, but it's a fact of the job that sometimes we have to wait for the killer to give us the next piece."

"Rossi." She knows she sounds angry, but she just doesn't get what the big deal is. "What makes this any more dangerous than planning a tactical in less than an hour?"

Morgan's eyebrows go up. "She has a point."

"The difference," Rossi's tone is the one he uses when someone is being particularly thick-headed, "is between being in an offensive position on a tactical and being in a defensive position as bait to a serial killer."

"Seriously, Rossi." Morgan is slathering his baked potato with butter. "If we're both armed and wired and there's back-up close by, I'm not sure I get where the situation is that much more dangerous than going on an on-site interview."

Dave is cutting into his steak in a way that makes Emily glad for the cow's sake that it's already dead when he growls, "We don't know how he's overpowering them. And he has used a gun on a few of his victims in case the two of you have forgotten."

"But he's evolving. He hasn't used a gun since the second couple." Emily is earnest and eager and she _knows_ she's pissing him off but she knows she doesn't have a chance with Hotch if she can't sway Rossi and she can't quite figure out why Dave is playing hardball.

"It doesn't mean he's still not carrying it with him." Rossi's attention is focused on his plate. Emily and Morgan exchange a glance.

"And we're trained professionals with guns, too," Derek says.

"Look." Rossi looks first at Morgan, then at Emily and back to Morgan. "I'd like to have a decent meal with pleasant company. But I'm not backing you on this. There isn't enough prep time and lack of prep time makes it dangerous. You can take it to Hotch in the morning and he's going to say the same thing."

Only Rossi, who is so frequently right, was wrong.

Hotch _is_ resistant when Morgan and Emily first approach him, but after going over it several times, he concedes it might be just the thing they need to rattle their killer. The only glitch in the plan is Emily's lack of proper attire for the elegant Chrysanthemum, but a quick shopping trip with JJ and she has a new dress and evening purse. The heels she'd brought with her to Charleston will have to do, she decides.

"Wow," JJ breathes when she enters the small locker room at the police station. "That is what little black dresses are supposed to be."

It is an attention-getter, for sure. Black, form-fitting satin with a halter top and ruched bodice that hugs her hips and ends above the knee. Emily would not be applying to the Bureau for reimbursement; this was going into her personal wardrobe when this case was over.

Emily smiles. "It was a lucky find." She frowns. "I just wish there was some place for my gun."

"You could go all Bond girl with a snub nose revolver in a thigh holster." JJ grins and jerks her head towards the squad room. "I bet I could get a few volunteers to help you strap it on."

Emily rolls her eyes. "Thanks so much for the offer, but I'll just put my service weapon in my purse instead."

JJ sighs. "Morgan is going to be disappointed to know you're not packing in that."

"Morgan can bite me," Emily replies cheerfully, leaning toward the mirror to apply another coat of red lipstick.

"He's wearing the mic under his shirt." JJ hands Emily the tiny ear piece, watching as she inserts it, then smoothes her hair over her ear, effectively hiding it. "We should be able to hear anything from both of you." JJ gives her a look. "Hotch is absolutely adamant you don't separate, so if you need to hit the ladies room, do it now."

Emily tugs on each side of the dress's skirt, shifting from one foot to the other as she does so. "JJ, this dress is a serious case of form over function. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to even sit in this thing; there's no way I could go to the bathroom."

Laughing, JJ holds up a hand. "Just don't drink a lot of water so you don't have to worry about it."

"That would be bad, wouldn't it?" Emily grins as she fluffs her hair. "Blowing an undercover because I had to pee and couldn't get my dress back in place."

JJ cocks an eyebrow at her. "I thought this wasn't an undercover."

Emily makes a face in the mirror. "It's a recon mission." She looks up to meet JJ's gaze in the mirror. "Is Rossi still pissed?"

"He is currently pouting in the corner." Her smile is grim. "He really didn't like not getting his way on this one."

Turning from the mirror, Emily gives JJ a quizzical look. "What is up with that?"

JJ shrugs. "I don't know. He hasn't challenged Hotch on the decision, but it's pretty obvious he's not happy."

"Once we're back safe, hopefully with a new lead or two, he'll get over it." Emily hopes so anyway. She doesn't like the idea of Rossi being upset with her, but her gut is telling her this is the way to find the killer and Rossi had been one of the first ones to tell her to trust her gut.

There is a perfunctory knock on the door before Hotch speaks on the other side. "Prentiss?"

"Ready." She picks up her bag and smiles at JJ as Hotch walks into the room.

"Remember, this is just about gathering information, looking for anything out of the ordinary. You're not there to arrest anyone or take anyone out." He looks more severe than usual; part of it has been this case being tougher than usual and she suspects another part of it is Rossi being so unhappy with the plan. Emily wonders if Rossi's attitude is causing Hotch to doubt himself.

"Looking for suspicious circumstances or people," she confirms. "Data gathering only."

Hotch nods at her and they walk out to the squad room together. Morgan lets out a low whistle when he sees her and Rossi looks up, his jaw clenching when he meets her eyes; she sighs. She has the feeling, even if they come back with the suspect in four-point restraints, with DNA and corroborating evidence, a signed confession and video of the murders, it's going to be awhile before Rossi gets over this. But, she'll have to figure that out later, because right now it's show time.

Chrysanthemum is the classic romantic restaurant. It's dimly lit with candles on the linen-covered tables and a jazz combo playing in the corner. The seating is a mix of two-top and four-top tables and there appears to be a private room for larger parties in the back. The staff uniform is black pants and black dress shirt with red ties for men and women.

Emily thinks about the women wearing ties as she studies her menu. She has one outfit that screams for a tie, but she's never learned how to knot one. Hotch is the only person she knows who wears a perfectly knotted tie on a regular basis, but she has hesitated to ask him to show her how. Despite the fact that they've grown close over the last three years, she's aware she's still afraid of being found wanting and admitting she doesn't know how to do something, even something as inconsequential as tying a tie, gives her some anxiety.

Of course, Reid wears a tie; not quite as often as Hotch, but often enough. But Emily doesn't like the way he knots his ties. The knots are too small and tight; she always feels a pang of sympathy for the material of the tie, as if it's being choked in its own knot. Plus, the idea of asking Reid to teach her anything sort of sends a shudder through her. She'd ask for a lesson in tying a tie and end up with a history lesson on the British monarchy.

And she wouldn't ask Morgan to show her anything. She loves him. They're friends. But outside of cases there is the twofold undercurrent of competition and flirtation. The competition is what she imagines sibling rivalry must be like, except, perhaps, more good-natured. The flirting...well, she's never taken that too seriously, but she also knows if she ever decided on a no-strings relationship Morgan would take the opportunity, then move on without a backwards glance. It's his nature and she doesn't take it personally. Nor would she ever fix him up with a friend that was interested in more than a cup of hot coffee and hotter sex. Not that she has that many friends outside of work...but, still.

Then there's Rossi, of course. When he wears a tie, it's beautifully knotted. When he gets over being pissed, she could ask him. Emily feels as though she could ask him to teach her anything without judgment or competition. She loves her team, she'd go to the mat for any of them, but there's a safety with Rossi that isn't there with the rest of them.

The approach of the waiter brings her out of her reverie about Windsor knots and her teammates and she reminds herself they're here for a reason.

"Welcome to Chrysanthemum," the dark-eyed waiter says. He's tall and thin with large hands and long, tapered fingers. "I'm Richard and I'll be your server this evening. May I start you off with something from the bar?"

Morgan looks up at Richard and smiles. "I am sad to say 'no'. She's dragging me to meet her parents tomorrow and we have to get up early in the morning. Something from the bar is not in our plans."

Emily's sputter is as much from Reid's amused snort in her earpiece as from Morgan's extemporaneous acting.

Richard, on the other hand, grins at Morgan in male commiseration. "Very good, sir." He's holding his hands clasped in front of him in the perfect pose of a host deferring to an honored guest. "Might I offer you some iced tea instead? We have a pomegranate infusion that's very popular, as well as a fresh raspberry blend. We also have a fresh squeezed lemonade with blueberry accents."

Morgan raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, acting impressed. "I'll have the raspberry iced tea." He looks at Emily with a feigned expression of concern. "What about you, honey?"

Emily refrains from rolling her eyes, but only just. "I'll just have water, thanks."

"Would you like a sparkling water or would you prefer spring water?" Richard is bent toward Emily, giving her choice of water his full attention.

"Spring, please."

"Very good. I'll leave you to peruse the menu and check back with you in a few minutes." He gives a slight bow and moves away from the table.

Surreptitiously, Emily looks around. There are half a dozen servers around the room but none of them appear to be paying any special attention to them. Of course, she reminds herself the unsub may be a patron not an employee, or he may not be affiliated with the restaurant at all; he could simply be picking the couples up once they leave.

Nothing sets off any alarm bells; nothing looks out of the ordinary in anyway.

They're conversing about the layout of the room, the position of the bar, the party room, the number of servers, the man who appears to be the chef periodically emerging from the kitchen to visit the occasional table and even any other diners that appear to have even glanced in their direction. It all appears to be an ordinary conversation, a little boring even. But they both know Reid and Hotch (along with half-dozen other people) is listening in, absorbing any details that might prove useful later. But, so far, she thinks this excursion might be a waste of time and department resources.

Admittedly, the meal is one of the best she's ever had. She'd ordered the blackened tuna on a bed of sauteed greens with rosemary new potatoes and she can't recall the last time she enjoyed restaurant food so much. Morgan had raised his eyebrows at the low country specialty of shrimp and grits, but ordered it on a dare from Prentiss _"Grits are almost the same thing as polenta, you big chicken." He cut her a look. "Emily, I grew up in a poor Chicago neighborhood. How often do you think I ate polenta or grits?" But he's lived in Virginia long enough to not be too afraid of them and takes her dare._

"You're enjoying your meal, I hope?"

Emily looks up to see a large man in chef's whites standing next to their table. She dabs at her mouth with her napkin. "Yes," she breathes, sizing him up. He's as tall as Morgan and more solidly built, but he has a natural smile that lights up his dark face and his eyes are kind. "Did you make this?"

He gives a self-deprecating smile and bows his head modestly. "I did. You like it?"

"It's amazing." She smiles at him.

Morgan nods in agreement. "I have to say, man, this is some seriously good food."

"Ha! You've discovered the secret to free dessert: pander to the chef's vanity."

"I couldn't eat another bite," Emily groans.

"Nonsense!" He clasps his hands together. "There's always reason and room for a sweet. It's the perfect end, especially to a spicy meal."

Emily is shaking her head, but Morgan is looking inquiringly at the chef. "What have you got?"

"We have a chocolate mousse, Black Forest cake, carrot cake and a gourmet banana pudding."

Morgan orders the Black Forest cake and Emily - after a lot of pressure from Morgan (a "Come on, baby, live a little," that would have earned him a kick under the table had the chef not been standing there) and a quiet reminder through her earpiece from Hotch that the longer they stretch their dinner, the more likely they are to discover if something is out of the ordinary - orders the mousse. The chef says he'll send it right out and moves to speak to the party of four at the next table.

Richard brings their desserts and goes to get Morgan a cup of coffee. Morgan picks up his fork but frowns down at the dessert plate in front of him. "Something wrong?" Emily asks, reaching for her spoon.

"It has cherries on it," he says glumly.

"And in it, too, if it's made the right way. That's what Black Forest cake is," she says dryly.

Morgan makes a face. "I was confused. I thought it was the one with the pecans and the coconut."

Emily shakes her head. "No, that's German chocolate cake."

"Isn't the Black Forest in Germany?" He's looking at her dessert and not her eyes.

"Yes, it is." She narrows her eyes at him when he is clearly coveting her mousse. "And German chocolate cake is not made with chocolate from Germany, but from a sweet chocolate originally manufactured by the German company, out of Texas, I think."

"You sound like Reid." He's slowly rotating his plate as if the movement will make the cherries disappear.

"Hey!" she says.

"Hey!" Reid says in her ear.

"Prentiss," Morgan smiles at her winningly, "I really hate cherries."

"No way." She cups her hands protectively around her mousse.

"It was an honest mistake," he wheedles. "I ate the damn grits because you dared me to, didn't I?"

Emily huffs out a breath. "Fine." She slides the mousse toward him and accepts the plate from his hand. Despite trying to make sure Morgan feels as guilty as possible, Emily can't deny the cake is amazing; the cherries are crisp and sweet with the smallest touch of tartness and the cake itself is moist and rich, the combination of the two complemented by the cream is divine. She eats much more than she should and enjoys every bite of it.

Finally, after lingering over coffee and dessert, they settle the bill and leave. Emily feels over-full, almost as though the food has had a soporific effect on her. It's late but the streets aren't deserted. "Walk a little?" Morgan asks, voice low-pitched, blending in with the dark around them.

"Not far," comes Hotch's voice in her ear and she repeats, "Not far," dragging in a breath of the crisp evening air.

They begin a slow stroll down the street, Emily clutching her purse, grateful for the solid weight of her gun within. She feels like she's missed something, missed something major and secretly wishes it was Rossi walking with her; he seems to stimulate her thought process, get her brain moving. And right now she feels the need for her brain to move. She feels sluggish, slow; she ate too damn much. As much as she wants to catch the killer, she's sort of hoping he doesn't show himself tonight. She doesn't feel in any condition to fight or chase an unsub.

Emily stops for a minute, trying to inhale deeply. The dress is too tight and she feels like she can't breathe. Morgan stops beside her, "Emily, are you all right?"

There's real concern in his voice, but she can't answer. She's trying too hard to draw in air. It's like she remembers breathing as a concept, but her body can't recall how to do it. It takes a tremendous effort, but she pulls in a breath then tries to release it. Her chest hurts and her lungs feel stretched, but she can't release the breath and it's like she's drowning in air. Things are graying out around the edges. She reaches blindly for Morgan's arm and she hears his frantic, "Emily!" along with Hotch's stern, "Prentiss!" just before she hits the sidewalk. She feels sort of bad for Hotch; he keeps having to hear bad things he can't control over the radio. _That sucks,_ she thinks, _not as bad as not being able to breathe, but..._

"Is the lady all right?" There's a voice she doesn't recognize, or maybe she does. "I've got my van right here. I can give you a ride to the hospital."

Several people are screaming in her earpiece, "Go! Go! Go!" and Morgan is shouting, "FBI. Don't move you son of a bitch." She thinks she knows what that means and it's good, but she's trying to figure out how she could have heard Rossi's, "Fuck!" over the wire when he's leaning over her, saying, "Emily! Emily!" and shaking her pretty hard.

She should be pissed about that, wants to tell him just because he's mad at her doesn't mean he has the right to shake her. But what had been gray on the edge of her vision before is now black and everything feels kind of distant. His hands are warm though, so that's nice. Vaguely aware of chaos to her left where Morgan had been talking to the man with the van, she's not sure who is with him since Reid and Hotch's anxious faces are floating above her along with Rossi's.

"Fuck. She's not breathing." Rossi looks majorly ticked off and she wants to tell him not to be upset anymore because she was right, Morgan got the guy, but _he's_ right, she's not breathing, so speaking is not really an option. Now his hands are under her neck tilting her head back and she looks up at the sky and sees stars above the street lights.

_So many stars._

Then she doesn't see anything except Rossi and she wonders why he's pinching her nose when she can't breathe already. Then his mouth is covering hers and he's breathing into her and she finally knows what his beard feels like against her lips.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:** Teen/FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** This fic is **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. She is generous and wonderful and I am very fortunate to have her as a friend. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan. Previously posted on LiveJournal.

**smittywing** and **smacky30** are Superheroes! They add commas and tell me when I'm using the semi-colon incorrectly! They tell me when things don't work and when things do! They tolerate my insecurity and threaten me when I am thinking of giving up! All in a single bound! Plus they gave me all of the best lines! Superheroes, I tell you!

* * *

The beep is not loud or frequent, but it is annoyingly _persistent_.

_iWhat did I leave in the microwave?_/i The groggy thought passes through the fog of Emily's brain between beeps.

Since the noise is not loud or constant enough to be her alarm, it must be her microwave reminding her she heated water for tea or maybe bumped up the temperature on a tepid cup of coffee. She tries to think back to what she was doing before she fell asleep and can't. She thinks maybe she has the flu; she feels sore all over and her throat hurts, feels like maybe a couple of the fires from Hell have relocated there.

Experimentally, she raises her eyelids and knows she's not at home, not on the plane, not even in one of the endless, anonymous, innocuous hotel rooms that she seems to spend a good chunk of her life passing through, pausing only long enough to grab a few hours of sleep and a shower. She knows it's night, but there is a light on over a sink on the opposite wall and light is bleeding in from under the door. Everything is relentlessly white and blindingly chrome even in the darkened room. She shifts a little to get a better look around and feels the tug of something against the skin of her face. Raising tentative fingers she touches a strap running along her cheek and follows it to a plastic cup covering her mouth. She forces her eyes downward and sees it's an oxygen mask.

So, hospital.

She blinks her eyes, trying to clear them of the fog and film, wishing she could blink her brain for the same reasons. Breathing deeply against the mask, she turns her head and is met with the completely unexpected sight of David Rossi asleep in the chair beside the bed. Blinking again, she takes a minute to study him; she's seen everyone on the team asleep except Rossi. When Hotch was in the hospital they all took turns sitting with him, if not in his room, then close to it and he spent a good period of that time sleeping while he recovered. The rest of the team have all sacked out on the plane on the ride home except Rossi and Hotch; they tend to do paperwork, though she's always had the feeling they're both watching over the rest of them as much as dealing with the minutia of the job.

His face is relaxed and unguarded, though she can see dark circles under his eyes. She wonders which shift this is, because she's sure the team would be taking turns sitting with her and she wonders how long she's been out.

There's a rustling movement at the door and a middle aged African-American woman walks in the room, smiling when she sees Emily's eyes are open. She's wearing pink scrub pants with a colorfully patterned scrub top, so Emily assumes she's a nurse. "Hi, there," the nurse speaks quietly as she approaches the bed, her eyes flicking quickly to the figure sleeping in the chair.

"Hi," Emily responds, her voice sounding hollow and unnatural against the heavy plastic of the mask covering her face. Frustrated, she fumbles it away from her mouth. "What happened?"

The nurse takes the mask from Emily's hand with a firm grip and puts it back in place. "Keep this on." Her tone is dry as she looks at the read out on the machine closest to Emily. "We didn't give it to you because it's a stunning fashion accessory. The doctor will be by in the morning to answer any questions you have."

Emily makes a frustrated noise behind the mask, but doesn't ignore the nurse's directive to leave the mask alone. Normally, she'd probably fight the nurse, or at least the edict, but she still feels groggy, like her brain is heavy and moving in slow motion. Her eyelids move down slowly, and she sighs as the nurse speaks again. "You're going to be fine." Emily feels a pat on her arm. "Go back to sleep. It's almost morning."

But her voice is already fading as Emily sinks back into sleep.

When her eyes open again, the sun is up and Hotch is the one in the chair beside the bed, frowning down at a pile of papers.

"Hotch," she tries to say, but it turns into a cough and _ifuck/i_ that hurts.

He stands up, his expression alarmed. "Emily. Do you need a doctor?"

She shakes her head and holds up a hand, silently asking for a minute. When she can breathe without pain, she moves the mask. "What happened?"

Hotch gives her a severe look and crosses his arms over his chest. Emily looks back defiantly, but still puts the mask back over her mouth.

"Do you remember the restaurant?" He unfolds his arms.

She starts to say, "Yes," but settles for nodding instead.

"Do you remember taking a walk afterward?" His head is tilted to the side.

She remembers walking and her dress being tight, then not being able to breathe. Did she fall? She's not sure, she just remembers hearing Morgan identifying himself as FBI to someone and Rossi's face being over hers...he had been _ipissed_./i

She nods.

"It was the chef."

Moving her hand in a forward motion, she indicates he should continue.

"When you collapsed, he was right there, waiting to offer to take you to the hospital. Only it wasn't supposed to be you. He'd put Rohypnol in the Black Forest cake, thinking he was drugging Morgan. The dosage would have made Morgan dizzy then he'd have passed out. But it was an overdose for you; you suffered from respiratory arrest. Dave did mouth to mouth until the bus got there and they were able to bag you."

"When?" she asks, still frustrated with the distortion caused by the mask.

"Two nights ago." His face softens at her expression. "You were on a ventilator until last night; they had to keep you sedated after they pumped your stomach."

The stomach pumping and the ventilator both explain the pain in her throat. She touches the oxygen mask.

He seems to sense her question. "Just until your oxygen levels even out. You'll probably be rid of it in a few hours."

"Unsub?" Emily decides full sentences are only going to highlight any communication problems.

"We got him." Hotch pulls the recliner closer to the bed, sitting after angling it so it's easier for her to see his face. "His home was full of trophies and he took pictures. Morgan's been trying to get a confession. Nothing so far, but we really don't need it."

"Stressor?" she questions after taking a breath, feeling a little like Darth Vader.

He shakes his head. "No clue so far. He hasn't asked for an attorney, but he's also not talking."

Giving him an expectant look, she makes the "gimme" motion again.

"The first couple lived next door to him. The others he appears to have seen at Chrysanthemum. Our best guess is he used the gun to threaten them into submission at first, but when word got out about mixed race couples being targeted, they started fighting and he had to change his method. That also explains the gaps in the timeline."

Emily nods her agreement.

"We're thinking he drugged the men at the restaurant...because they all weighed more than you, it probably didn't happen as quickly or as severely as in your case. The men start to feel ill or pass out and the women panic. He's there offering a quick ride to the hospital and he's got them in the van."

It's all fairly elementary from there she knows. Once the couple is in the unsub's van he's in control. And though toxicology had been run in all of autopsies, if he kept them alive for three days, then the Rohypnol would be out of their system before the bodies were found.

Hotch gives her a grim smile. "He only works Thursday thru Saturday."

It's circumstantial but with any evidence from his house, plus her own blood tests, it will be more than enough.

He looks at her, his expression a mixture of things she can't name. "It was good work, Prentiss. I wouldn't have had it turn out like that, and thank God it wasn't worse, but your instincts were good on this one."

Emily wants to smile, not at the praise - though praise from Hotch always makes her want to preen - but because he always delivers his kudos with such a severe look on his face. She's sort of curious as to what the reasoning behind the ultra serious look is. Next time the team goes drinking, she's going to ask him. But, in the meantime, there's someone who didn't think her work was so good. "Rossi?"

Hotch gives a grim smile. "He doesn't think your instincts were quite as sharp as the rest of us do."

She nods a little sadly.

"Emily," he says, "he feels guilty. He thinks if he'd followed i_his/i_ gut and yelled at me until I called it off, you wouldn't be in the hospital." He purses his lips. "Speaking of guilt? Morgan feels awful about the dessert switch. He's been fighting Rossi to stay with you."

Rolling her eyes, Emily huffs causing a burst of fog against the surface of the mask. She can just imagine those two alpha males going head to head over who would be the best caretaker and guardian; she's glad she missed it. Then she remembers the sight of Rossi asleep in the recliner beside the bed during the night and she's grateful Hotch is stuffing the pile of papers back in his briefcase and doesn't see the flush she can feel heating her cheeks.

"You're on medical leave until you're cleared for work. If there are no complications you should be out of the hospital tomorrow." He hesitates and she knows she's not going to like what he's about to say. "The doctor here has been in touch with your primary care physician. They're in agreement you should stay for a day or two after your release to avoid complications."

"Oh." He doesn't have to say the rest. The team can't stay, she knows that. She swallows against a surge of disappointment and loneliness. She'll be fine, she knows. Charleston is a beautiful city and a few days resting in a hotel in a beautiful city will be good for her. It's a chance to catch up on some reading, maybe even some movies. It'll be good, she tells herself.

"We're heading back this afternoon," he seems a little diffident.

"Hotch, it's fine." She's forgotten about the oxygen mask momentarily and she can't even understand her own words.

Frustrated, she moves the mask and repeats, "It's fine," then puts the mask back.

"Prentiss." His voice is severe, and she sort of feels sorry for Jack if he's on the receiving end of that often.

She gives him an innocent look that clearly says, _iwhat? I put it back/i. _

He's frowning at her, but there's no heat to it and she smiles at him under the mask as he begins speaking again. "Rossi said he'd like to stay and fly back with you at the end of the week."

"What?" She knows her expression must clearly convey what her voice can't at the moment.

Hotch shrugs. "He has to use up some of his leave or lose it. He said he's always wanted to visit Charleston."

Emily is struggling to sit up in the bed and goes for the mask again when Hotch holds up a hand. "Prentiss." She drops her hand. "Emily. We're not going to leave you here by yourself."

His eyebrows are curved into sideways question marks over his eyes. "You do realize you almost died less than forty-eight hours ago? Do you honestly think any of us would feel good about leaving you here alone? If it was Morgan in this bed instead of you, would you get on the jet this afternoon?"

He's right. She relaxes back against the bed. There is no question, no doubt. She would stay for Morgan, for any of them, if it meant carrying them back to Quantico on her back. She nods.

Hotch, looking significantly less tense now that she appears to be more accepting of the situation, smiles at her. "I'll try to get Dave not too be too big of a pill after the first few i_I told you so's_/i." She has the impression he is trying very hard not to laugh at her.

It's fairly horrifying, she decides, the idea of being completely at David Rossi's mercy, having to listen to the non-stop haranguing from him. "Can't Strauss come stay with me instead?"

Hotch's lips twitch. "I'm sure I didn't understand what you just said. But if..." Emily never gets to hear what gem he was about to offer since a doctor (well, she's assuming from the white coat and stethoscope he's a doctor) and a young blond nurse (wearing an almost identical outfit to the one the nurse last night was wearing) enter the room and Hotch excuses himself to let the doctor examine her. Pronounced as "doing remarkably well," she is allowed to remove the oxygen mask. Which is a very good thing, she decides, since she doesn't want to go into battle with Rossi hampered by the inability to yell back. The doctor says if everything continues to go well she'll be out of the hospital by the middle of the next day and home by the weekend.

Hotch comes back in after the doctor leaves. She's tired and she knows it must show on her face, because of the gentle expression on his own. Sitting in the chair again, he moves his briefcase out of the way and tells her she should rest. He even jokes about not having the oxygen mask to keep her quiet anymore. He speaks to her quietly about inconsequential things, the weather in South Carolina, sights she might see, the entire team having sworn off dessert.

She's smiling when she sleeps.

She's alone when she wakes again and she has to breathe through a flash of panic until she hears voices in the hall outside her door. She can't really make out what they're saying, but she hears the contrast of Morgan's rich tones with Reid's higher pitch.

There's an untouched food tray on the bed table and the room is brighter, the light a little more golden and she thinks it's probably afternoon. She has the disconcerting sensation of being a little removed from time and space. Hotch said she'd been brought to the hospital two nights ago, so that makes today Monday. But she has no idea what time it is, how long she's slept, what was going on in the world in the time she's been unconscious.

She ought to feel concerned by that, but she finds she just doesn't care that much. Taking stock, she realizes her throat still hurts, but other than the low grade muscle aches, that is the only indication she has that anything is wrong physically. But there's a lingering lethargy clinging to her like a film. Having the next few days to rest sounds very appealing and, despite the fact he is going to give her a rash of shit, she enjoys Rossi's company. He's interesting to talk to, he's fun to go places with, and he always seems to find the best food and the best wine. There's also something easy about being with him when there's nothing to do. They've spent plenty of time on the jet side by side, both talking and not. There's a quiet acceptance she feels with him that she's never felt with anyone else she's worked with and, truth be told, she's felt it less than a handful of times with anyone in her life.

It'll be good she decides. Once Rossi finishes handing her her ass it might even be fun.

The door to her room opens slowly and Morgan leans his head in. "Hey." He looks very somber. "Feel like some company for a few minutes?"

She grins and responds cheerfully. "I would love some company."

He walks in carrying a ridiculously large vase of flowers.

"God, Morgan." She chokes out a laugh. "Did you buy out the florist?"

"Hey, now." He puts the flowers on the small table beside the bed and stands, looking down at her. "You had us worried there for awhile; looking into your bright eyes is worth a few blooms."

Emily shakes her head against the pillow. "I'm fine." She's seen him polite, angry, concerned, joking, questioning and frustrated, but she's never seen such a look of such unadulterated seriousness on his face. "Derek." She captures his hand. "I am fine."

"But you almost weren't." It's flat and serious.

"Almost doesn't really count here, does it?" She gives his hand a little shake as though she can shake the belief into him. "Everything turned out all right."

"It was meant for me. If I hadn't made you switch desserts, I would have been the one that got drugged." This look she knows, she's sadly seen it on his face before: remorse.

Scooting up against the bed as best she can, Emily sighs and decides to take a page from Hotch's book. "Morgan, can you imagine how I would have felt if it had been you? The whole thing was my idea. The guilt would have eaten me alive."

"If it had been me it would have knocked me out, not taken me out." His eyebrows climb to emphasize his point.

"But it didn't take me out." She's searching for the control to the bed and reminding herself not to get frustrated. "I'm fine."

Morgan drops into the recliner, but sits on the edge. "Only because Rossi was paying attention. He left the car before the unsub showed himself. If he hadn't figured out you weren't breathing and started giving you mouth to mouth, you would have died."

"I'm grateful to Rossi, but I'm also pretty confident one of you would have figured it out, even if he hadn't." Her tone is a little dry. She doesn't want to minimize what happened or be dismissive of Morgan's anxiety, but they've all had advanced first aid and know that checking respiration is one of the first things to do. Besides, even if by some fluke every one of them forgot what first aid they know, there's a genius amongst them and he, at least, would have figured it out.

Morgan's shoulders sag a little. "I know." He sounds glum. "But I still feel like crap."

Laughing a little, she finally finds the correct button and manages to raise herself so she's more sitting than reclining. "It was my call, I'm ultimately responsible." She gives him a cheeky grin. "Maybe next time just order something you're sure you know what it is. How can you not like cherries?"

His lip quirks up slightly. "Cherries are nasty."

"Oh, my god, no! You're so wrong." She holds up a hand in mock horror. "Cherries are perfect and wonderful. And that cake was amazing. With the exception of that whole drugging thing, it was the best dessert I've ever had."

He shakes his head. "There is something just not right about you, Prentiss." His hands are on his knees and his look switches back to serious. "I owe you."

Emily waves a hand airily. "I'll take that out in paperwork."

His smile is wide enough this time to flash his teeth. "I knew you'd find a way to exact revenge."

"I am merely trying to alleviate your guilt." Her eyes are wide and she bats her eyelashes a few times for good measure.

He sighs, acting put upon. "Fine. I'll do your paperwork for a week."

"A week?" She huffs. "My life is only worth a week of paperwork to you? I am hurt." Moving the back of her hand to her forehead in the classic position of melodrama, she sniffs. "Devastated actually..."

His eyes narrow to slits. "You're pushing it, Prentiss."

"Never happy." Shaking her head, she smiles at him. "Buy me a cup of coffee my first day back and we'll call it even."

"Deal," he agrees.

The door swings inward as Reid backs into the room, carrying two very full cups of coffee.

"Spencer Reid, did you read my mind?" Emily greets him happily, glad the heavy moment with Morgan is over. "You will be my hero forever if you tell me one of those is for me."

"Sure." He hands her one of the cups and she feels the heat radiating through the cardboard. "You can have Derek's."

"Hey!" Morgan really does sound indignant and Emily thinks today just might not be his day when Reid hands him the other cup with a smile.

"Thanks, Reid." She adjusts the cup to a more comfortable position, reaching out to drag the tray table towards her, then setting the cup beside the untouched food tray. "I didn't take yours did I?" She's already thumbing off the plastic lid and inhaling the aroma and she really hopes she didn't take his, because she doesn't want to be polite and give it back.

"No, I've had enough for today." He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks on his feet. "Yours has already been sweetened with approximately two and a half packets of Splenda, since that cup is almost two and a half times the volume of your mug at work."

Emily smiles as she blows across the top of the coffee. "Thank you, Reid."

Reid smiles at her a little shyly and rocks on his feet again. It's one of his tells, he rocks when he's nervous or excited. "I'm really glad you're okay."

Emily smiles at him, genuinely touched. "Thanks." She takes a cautious sip of the hot coffee. "Me, too."

"You're just glad it's not you in the hospital this time," Morgan says accusingly.

"There is that," Reid agrees good naturedly. "But I see you've managed to leave her food alone." He lifts the lid on the tray to reveal a bowl of what Emily assumes is soup, a cup of what looks like apple sauce and another of jello.

Morgan snorts. "I just got here. It's not like Rossi let anyone else stay long enough to get hungry. I'm surprised he let Hotch take over this morning."

Emily doesn't know what to do with that bit of information. When she'd been awake during the night and seen him asleep she had assumed it was his turn to sit with her, not that he was taking the lion's share of the time. It didn't really make sense considering how mad he'd been at her. She tucks the knowledge away to process later when she's not distracted by Reid and Morgan.

Reid picks up the spoon and pushes the bowl of soup-beef broth from the smell of it-towards Emily. "You should eat. You were unconscious for over thirty-six hours, which is a long time to go without nourishment." He holds out the spoon and gives her a tentative smile. "The first meal is always designed to be as innocuous as possible."

Reluctantly, she puts the coffee cup down; she misses the warmth as soon as she releases the cup, but she knows what Reid's not saying. If she doesn't at least put a dent in a meal it will push back her release from the hospital; not to mention what drinking a giant cup of coffee on an empty stomach would do to her. With a sigh she accepts the spoon and removes the lid from the bowl and begins sipping the tepid broth.

"Did Hotch tell you we're headed back?" Morgan looks a little sheepish.

"Yeah." She swallows, noting the slightly pained, uncomfortable look on Reid's face. "Suckers. I'll be down here soaking up the southern sun while you're slogging away at your desks."

Thankfully, Reid smiles a little but Morgan shifts in the chair. "It feels a little bit like we're leaving a man behind."

She shakes her head. "Seriously, Morgan. It'll be more like a vacation than anything."

"I get smacked in the head with a shovel and have to retake a tactical defense course," JJ says coming through the door, Emily's go bag in her hand. "You eat cake and get a vacation. How is that fair?" She drops the bag and bends over the bed to give Emily what turns out to be a slightly awkward hug because of the angle.

"JJ, you have to know how to work the system." Emily grins. "Besides, the team can do without me for a few days. But you?" She shakes her head. "You are indispensable."

JJ sighs dramatically. "Makes me wish I wasn't quite so good at my job."

"Yeah, you should work on slacking off and screwing up more," Morgan says from the chair.

"I could say something about copying your work ethic, but you might take it the right way," she returns dryly.

"Ow." He winces as Reid snorts. "We need to get you home. You get mean when you've been without your men too long."

JJ nods. "That is the plan. Wheels up at three o'clock. In the meantime, why don't the two of you clear out for a minute and let me help Emily into some more comfortable pajamas. You can come back when she's changed." Her fingers flick the sleeve of Emily's hospital gown. "Not that it isn't simply gorgeous..."

"Hey, you don't know what I had to do to get this outfit," Emily says as Reid and Morgan move out the door.

Looking amused, JJ bends to retrieve Emily's bag. "The little black dress was a lot more flattering."

Emily heaves a happy sigh and swings her legs around the side of the bed. "That is the perfect dress."

Looking a little chagrined, JJ unzips Emily's bag and offers it to her. "It iwas/i the perfect dress."

Pawing through the contents of her go bag, Emily frowns. "What do you mean 'was'?"

JJ watches as Emily pulls out a pair of red and black plaid pajama pants and a red t-shirt. "They had to cut it off of you."

Hearing she had been in respiratory arrest hadn't given Emily pause until now. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." JJ nods. "I mean, not on the street or anything. Just, after you were brought up here, they gave Hotch your personal possessions and the dress was basically two scraps of black material." She gives Emily her best "mom" look. "The situation was fairly urgent."

Emily nods, scooting towards the edge of the bed. "I gathered. Shame about the dress though."

JJ helps her stand. "One of the detectives at the police station suggested it was too dangerous to be on the street anyway. Though I think he used more colorful language than that."

Emily snorts then breathes through a moment of light-headedness as she finds herself standing. JJ has a steadying hand on her arm as Emily contemplates the logistics of changing clothes while not quite steady on her feet. "I bet that went over well with Hotch."

"Every bit as well as you'd imagine." Hotch likes to keep a good working relationship with the local forces, but he also doesn't tolerate any disrespect from anyone towards any member of the team. "I thought Rossi was going to punch the guy." She smiles fondly. "I'm always glad Rossi is on our side."

Emily doesn't comment as she half stands, half leans on the bed as she puts the pajama pants over first one foot, then the other.

JJ is busy undoing the back closures of the hospital gown. "Garcia wants you to call her, by the way. She was frantic; I think she's hacked the hospital's system a dozen times since Saturday night." She hands Emily her t-shirt over her shoulder. "If you find yourself with upgraded tv channels or prescription linens or something, you know who to thank."

Emily pulls the shirt over her head, laughing a little. "I'll call her in a little bit." Grabbing her toothbrush and toothpaste out of the bag, she moves away from the bed, but then has to stop as she sways a little.

"Good." JJ offers her an arm and helps her to the small bathroom. "Yell if you need help."

Glad for both the help and the privacy, Emily doesn't lock the door since she idoes/i feel surprisingly wobbly. She uses the facilities, washes her hands, then studies her reflection as she brushes her teeth. She's pale, more so than usual, even her lips look lighter than usual and the skin under her eyes is so dark it almost looks like bruising. Her hair, surprisingly, is no worse than her average bed head, but still not a sight for public consumption. Either someone washed her face while she was unconscious or all of her make-up wore completely off and since it's been over a day and a half, it really could be either one. There's a bit of adhesive on her cheek, gray and tacky; she knows its probably residual from the ventilator tube but she hates the feel of it against her skin. The truth is she hates the way she looks altogether.

II need to get some make-up on before Rossi gets back, /i she thinks, then she stops, spits toothpaste froth in the sink and wonders why it matters. Morgan and Reid have both seen her, Hotch was here this morning, she can't have looked much better then. Why should she care if Rossi sees her looking so...awful? "Don't do this to yourself, Prentiss," she tells her reflection firmly.

"You okay, Emily?" JJ calls through the door. "Do you need something?"

"Just a little horrified at how I look." She shakes her head at herself, but continues anyway. "Could you get my make-up clutch out of my go bag? And my brush?"

"Sure," JJ says cheerfully. "Though really, Emily? You were given a near lethal overdose two days ago. Nobody cares how you look, as long as you're here."

"Well, I need to make myself look a little less like the corpse I almost was." Emily winces at her pallid reflection as she finishes brushing her teeth, tapping the toothbrush against the porcelain to shake to excess water from the bristles. Then she runs the folded washcloth under the water, squeezing out the excess as she hears JJ approach the bathroom door.

She knocks lightly and Emily opens the door and leaves it open. JJ leans her shoulder against the door jamb and watches her friend's reflection as she runs the damp cloth over her face. "You iare/i pretty lucky, you know."

Emily smiles. "I know." She puts the washcloth aside and unzips her make-up bag, rooting around in it, using touch instead of sight to locate her moisturizer. "It drives my mother crazy, how often I've been hurt doing this job. I think she always manages to be in town right after I've been involved in an incident. She likes to rail about me being unlucky because of all the bumps and bruises."

Pulling out the frosted glass bottle, she pumps some of the cream across her fingertips then rubs her fingertips gently across her face. "But I don't really see it that way. The people we deal with are dangerous. Volatile."

Reaching into the bag again, she finds her foundation and sponge. "I don't think of myself as unlucky; I think I'm very lucky. I'm lucky it's never been serious, I've never been out of commission for very long." Working quickly, she dots the foundation on her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, then begins daubing at the dots with her sponge.

"I think we're all extraordinarily lucky as many close calls as we've had, we haven't lost anyone." Emily doesn't mention Gideon's name. Even if he's not with them any more, he's somewhere out there in the world; hopefully, he's happy and if he won't allow himself to be happy, she at least hopes he finds moments of peace. She meets JJ's eyes in the mirror. "Do you know how lucky I feel it was me and not Morgan? Or how lucky we are the killer chose us?"

JJ nods. "When I was pregnant with Henry, I kept wondering how I was going to see all the things we see and come home to a baby. I honestly wasn't sure I'd be back after my maternity leave. But when he got here?" She raises her eyes to meet Emily's in the mirror. "It actually made me more committed to the work we do. I have to do this job so his world will be a better, safer place."

Emily nods in understanding as she reaches for her eyeliner. "Yeah." She thinks that's part of the reason Hotch came back to work, why he keeps going, even after all the job cost him, he keeps doing the job for Jack.

"I think you're right, we're all lucky." JJ's eyebrows raise. "Though I don't know how lucky you're going to feel when Rossi gets through chewing on you."

Heaving a sigh, Emily tosses down the eye pencil. "I know." Studying her reflection, she realizes she's still pale but her complexion is even and the eyeliner makes her eyes look less sickly. While she's not fully made up, she decides this is sufficient. She looks better and there's no need for the full treatment. As long as no one, _iRossi/i_ her traitorous mind supplies, runs screaming from the room she'll call it a win. Besides, she's had about all the time on her feet she's interested in.

JJ helps her back to bed and, while Emily is fussing with the covers, goes to the door to tell the guys they can come back in. Morgan and Reid are followed by Hotch and Rossi who evidently arrived while Emily was applying her make-up. She does everything she can not to keep looking at Rossi, trying instead to concentrate on Reid's monologue about the historic significance of Charleston. "It was originally named Charlestown for Charles II of England who gave the land of the Carolinas to eight of his friends after the Restoration. Because of its importance as a port and it's placement along the coast it was a pivotal piece of geography in both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars."

Morgan claps him on the shoulder. "Wheels up this afternoon, kid. We don't have time for you to go over two wars with Emily."

JJ checks her watch and grimaces. "Yeah, we should really head towards the air strip now."

Morgan kisses Emily's forehead and JJ kisses her cheek. Reid stands at the foot of her bed and gives her his Reid-wave and a shy smile. Hotch looks at her seriously. "If you need anything let us know. We'll see you both when you get back." She nods and Hotch and Rossi shake hands, then the team is out the door, their voices trailing down the hall.

The silence in the room is like a living thing when Rossi turns and looks at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Um." She huffs out a small laugh. "It seems really stupid to say after being asleep for a day and a half, but, tired."

He nods. "I think that's natural. Your system is still recovering from the respiratory arrest plus all the drugs have to be lingering."

She looks at him standing at the foot of her bed, hands on his hips beneath his jacket, looking serious, but not quite as pissed off as everyone has led her to believe. "Rossi."

"Yeah?" Okay, there was an edge to that. Maybe he's angrier than he appears.

"Dave." She looks down, then back up. "I know you weren't happy about us going into that restaurant." Pausing for a moment, she can't help but interpret the look he's given her as ino shit/i and she loses a little of her nerve, but she makes herself push on. "I just wanted to say thank you for, um, saving my life."

An eyebrow curves in her direction. "So you think because I was pissed off about the operation that I was going to let you lay on the street and die?"

"That's not what I said." It's amazing how fast he can whip up her temper.

"That seems to be the inference if you're thanking me for something anyone would have done whether they knew you or not." His words are relatively even but his expression is stormy. "A stranger on the street would have given you help."

"Oh my god, Rossi." The team can't even have cleared the hospital entrance yet. If she had any idea where her cell phone was she'd call them to come get either her or Rossi because it definitely isn't a good idea for them to even be in the same state at the moment, much less the same room. "And if a stranger on the street had given me help, I would thank them, too." His face clears a bit at that, but she's still irked. "Just because you didn't get your way, you don't have to be such a baby."

His head snaps back and the black look is back. "It wasn't about getting my way, Prentiss. It's about your complete disregard for proper procedure when you're hell bent on something."

"Where is your phone?" she snaps.

"What?" Now he looks both perplexed and pissed.

"Your phone. Where is it? Because I think you need to call the kettle and tell it it's black."

He blows out a breath and finally drops his hands off his hips. "There is a difference, here. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I have more experience in the field than you and that it might give me a better idea about what could be a dangerous situation?"

She makes a frustrated noise. "Look, Rossi, it's not like I'm fresh out of the Academy with no training or experience."

He presses his hands to the footboard of the bed, leaning toward her aggressively. "I didn't say it was. What I said was I have more experience than you and that might make me better able to see when an operation is too dangerous."

While his voice is calm she feels a little like she's been slapped. "Or maybe you're a control freak who gets pissy when you don't get your way."

His mouth tightens, but he nods. "Maybe I am. But that doesn't change the fact that the operation was too dangerous and should never have happened."

"It was a success! We caught the guy." She shoves her hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face.

"At what cost, Emily?" His eyes are blazing and he's gripping the footboard tightly. "We would have caught him eventually. You never had to put yourself in danger."

Making a frustrated noise, she bunches the sheet in her fist. "He was hunting-"

"No." He shakes his head. "You provided him with an opportunity to hunt."

"So, you honestly think it would have been better to risk the lives of some other couple than go through with that?" She makes an incredulous noise. "Rossi, you're wrong."

"Tell that to someone who didn't have to watch you fall on the street or wait for you to breathe," he snarls. "Tell it to someone who didn't have to listen to the EMTs say they were losing you or watch you on that ventilator."

He straightens and his eyes are overly bright, maybe a little moist. "When you've watched somebody you care about...a team member, a friend, almost die because they took an unnecessary risk, then you can tell me I'm wrong." When he raises his hand to point an accusing finger at her she sees his hand is shaking slightly. "Don't tell me I'm wrong when you didn't have to watch that. Jesus, Emily," his voice is raw, "do you not get how close you came to dying? Do you think I...any of us, could have moved on after that?"

She's a woman in a field dominated by men and she was raised not to show her emotions. Not that she never cries, but when she needs to she does so in private and certainly never at work. Still, it's been a rough few days and she's physically exhausted and emotionally drained. All she's had to eat in forty hours is coffee and beef broth. Everything prior to that was pumped out of her stomach.

And Rossi is standing here yelling at her, not because he's angry but because he was scared. The worst part, of course, is that he's not wrong. She doesn't think she's wrong either; she thinks it was the right thing to go in and draw the killer out, possibly save two unknown lives. It's part of the job, often having to choose the lesser of two evils, but she does know, does understand, how devastating it would have been for all of them if things had been worse.

Swallowing hard, she tries to stop the trembling of her mouth and blink back her tears, but it doesn't work. Biting her lip, she blinks harder, only that makes the tears roll out of her eyes. Bringing a shaking hand to her face she wipes them away viciously, but they're replaced immediately by more. She wants to tell Rossi to leave, but she knows him. Hell, he's iRossi/i, he's not leaving until he decides he's going. So she just stares at him, tears falling, but chin set defiantly.

She sees the moment he absorbs that she's crying. His anger falls away and his expression softens. It's not that she's expressing her emotions or the feeling she's showing weakness when crying that she hates the most. It's this, the impact it has on other people, men especially; it feels like she's taking advantage, using an unfair weapon and she fucking ihates/i it.

If they're going to fight, she wants to fight fair. Though Rossi probably wouldn't feel the same way; he probably fights to win, never mind fair.

"Emily," he says softly.

"Oh, no," she says, swiping at her eyes again, proud that there's no discernible wobble to her voice. "Don't you dare stop just because I'm crying."

He moves around to her side. "What if I'm stopping because I'm being an asshole?" Tentative fingers touch her arm.

"When has that ever stopped you before?" she sniffs as he sits on the edge of the bed facing her.

Rossi barks out a laugh then puts a gentle hand on her hair, moving over the top of her head. "You're just gonna have to forgive me for being an asshole. I was scared, Emily. We all were." His hand is large and warm as it continues to stroke across the top of her head. "You were there in that dress and you were so pale and you weren't ibreathing./i It was like some sort of fucked up version of Snow White."

Snorting through her tears, she crumples the bed sheet in her hand. Even though he's not yelling at her any more, she doesn't seem able to stop crying. It's natural, she supposes. Events are catching up to her and reaction finally setting in. It actually has very little to do with Rossi chewing her out. "Sorry," she says on a shuddering breath, pulling a corner of the sheet up to wipe her eyes.

"Emily." He pulls her forward a little. "C'mere."

It's easy to let him wrap his arms around her in a gentle hug, tuck her head between his neck and shoulder and just let herself cry. His hands warm a path up and down her back and he doesn't tell her to hush or ask her to stop crying, he just holds her, making her feel safe.

There's something about Rossi that is comforting. Unlike Hotch or Morgan, Rossi doesn't hesitate to touch. He'll give her a hand up, put a guiding hand on her back, touch arms or hands. None of it is sexual or sexist, it's just Rossi. He's tactile and that comes through in the ways he deals with people, how he expresses affection, how he offers comfort.

He's excellent at offering comfort, she thinks, because she'd like nothing more than to move permanently into his arms, take up residence between his neck and his shoulder, just south of his cheek against her hair. She sighs, knowing she shouldn't let her thoughts trend this way. It's not politically correct and it's certainly not smart, but she's too tired, too wrung out to analyze it or even scold herself for it. Promising herself she'll stop this when she gets back to DC, she burrows just a little closer to his solid warmth and inhales the rich, male scent of Rossi.

Her tears have quieted, but he hasn't made a move to pull away. He's probably waiting for her, so, reluctantly, she begins to draw away. She feels his arms tighten briefly then loosen and he, too, pulls back. "Better?" He's bending his head to look in her eyes.

Dumbly, she nods, looking around for something to wipe her face. Rossi grabs the box of tissues from the bedside table and puts them beside her on the bed. Emily grabs a few. They're rough, institutional grade and fall apart after just a few swipes at her face.

Dave makes an impatient noise and reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief. She expects him to press the soft linen into her hand, but he tilts her chin and gently dabs at her cheeks and under her eyes. "So," he says, his tone conversational, "this is the job. We have to make hard choices sometimes." He's studying the movement of his hand across her face, not looking into her eyes. "And sometimes we don't agree on what the right decisions are."

"Yeah," she says quietly, her voice watery as she sniffs.

He frowns a little. "You're a good agent, Emily. But you're also-" He stops, takes a breath and starts over. "You're my friend. I don't think this team would function as well as it does if we didn't all care about each other. But that also means we can't be objective when one or the other of us is in danger."

Emily thinks about all of the times each of them has had a brush with an unsub, from getting treatment sitting on the bumper of an ambulance to weeks in the hospital and all the accompanying anxiety for the rest of the team. She thinks about the ranch in Colorado and how frantic she had been when the explosions started until she was able to set eyes on Reid.

"I know you're right." She looks at him, trying to be as honest as she can be without starting the fight again. "But we do dangerous jobs, we deal with the most dangerous people society has to offer and that means we're going to get banged up some."

Rossi frowns at her, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket. "Which is exactly why we should always be prepared for every operation, take every necessary precaution."

Frustrated, she throws her head back against the pillow, wishing for a wall to bang it against instead. "You're just not going to let it go, are you? You just have to win, don't you?"

"Prentiss." His eyebrows go up and he grins. "If you're in a confined to a hospital bed just out of a coma and I can't win an argument with you, when am I ever going to?"

Despite the feeling of frustration that he's not listening, she can't help her smile. "I'm going to call it a draw and say we agreed to disagree."

He sits back in the chair and smiles wider. "And I'm going to say I won, you lost. I'm right, you're wrong and you'll be more careful in the future."

She shakes her head. "Rossi?"

"Yeah?" He looks completely pleased with himself.

"Shut up."

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:** FRT/PG13 (Subject to change in later chapters)  
**Author's Notes:** This fic is **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan. **wojelah** is amazing and wonderful and a blessing in my life.

**smacky30** and **smittywing** rock SO hard! They are both responsible for all the little details in this and half of the lines. If you ever need great betas and better friends, you should look into getting two talented, patient, funny, sharp and amazing women like these two. I am more fortunate than I deserve.

* * *

Rossi sleeps in the recliner again, despite her protests, but she is too tired to protest _too much_. She'd never admit it to him, but the knowledge that he's there beside her makes waking disoriented in the night less frightening.

The doctor shows up after breakfast and banishes Rossi to the hall. First, he reads Emily's chart then he listens to her breathe in and out several times. He hands her a card, telling her to make an appointment for Friday and tells the nurse to put in for her release. To say she's relieved as she takes the card is a serious understatement.

It takes an hour for the paperwork to process, and she's not amused by the smug way Rossi insists on pushing her out in the hospital mandated wheelchair. He is smart enough not to say anything as he gets her settled into the rental car.

It takes her a minute to put it together that since they're both officially on leave the local Bureau vehicles aren't available to them. She makes a mental note to find a way to pay him back. Yes, he's a wealthy man, but she also doesn't want him to think she's taking advantage of that. And if it weren't for what he calls her recklessness he wouldn't be here in need of a rental car.

It's amazing to her how the simple act of dressing and getting in the car has exhausted her. She leans her head against the window, content with watching the scenery and absorbing the quiet inside the vehicle.

"Don't go to sleep." His voice is gentle. "We'll be at the hotel in a few minutes and you can take a nap without putting a permanent kink in your neck."

"I'm not going to sleep," she says, turning her head against the cool glass. Noting that they're headed towards the historic district instead of further inland towards their hotel, she turns her head to question him. "Aren't we the other direction?"

He grunts. "I am not spending my A.L. in that hotel.

_Of course he isn't._ She rolls her eyes. When he's on the job he stays where the team stays, eats where the team eats, and never appears snobby or even particularly picky. But on his own time he is exceedingly particular, if particular is defined as expecting the best.

There is really no point in arguing with him. Besides, staying at someplace a little nicer than their usual business-class hotel will be fun. JJ had brought her go bag, but it didn't have her dirty laundry or her laptop. "My things..." she starts.

"Were moved yesterday when I checked in to the new place," he supplies smoothly.

"You..." She reaches out and smacks his arm lightly. "You had a hotel room but you slept in that recliner last night? Aren't you supposed to be brilliant or something?"

Snorting, he slides her a glance. "Advance check-in yesterday, Prentiss. They held our luggage for today. So, I was essentially homeless last night. If you'd kicked me out I would have been on the street." He does pathetic very well, she decides. But she sees her own smile reflected at her when she turns back to the window.

It takes less than ten minutes for Rossi to pull up in front of their hotel. A uniformed doorman quickly moves to open Emily's door, touching his cap with a white-gloved hand. "Welcome to Charleston Place, ma'am," he says warmly as he offers Emily a hand.

"Thank you," she murmurs in reply, wishing she had spent a little more time on her appearance that morning.

"Mr. Rossi." The doorman smiles and Emily is not sure if she should be impressed with the service or the size of the tip the doorman must have gotten from Rossi yesterday to remember his name after a simple check-in.

Rossi hands over the car keys and the doorman takes Emily's go bag from his hand. Then Dave puts the tips of his fingers against Emily's lower back to guide her and they walk into the hotel. The lobby is a study in understated elegance with marble floors and dual grand staircases. Everything gleams and speaks of luxury in hushed tones. She should have known he would find the best place to stay.

She's traveled the world, stayed in palaces and castles, plus every type of hotel imaginable. When they traveled, her parents were usually a little more accessible, so it's not hard to understand why she continues to have a weakness for distinguished hotels, even now.

But she's wondering just how she had missed Charleston Place until now.

The lobby isn't crowded, but there are still more people than she'd expect to see in the middle of a week day; there are men dressed in business suits in Italian leather loafers passing by men in shorts with Tommy Bahama shirts and flip flops. The hard surfaces cause sound to carry and she can hear the genteel Southern twang interspersed with the rapid fire of several Northern accents. She would love to sink down on one of the sofas tucked in alcoves along the walls and people watch as the crowd flows through the gorgeous space, but Rossi's hand is still at her back gently urging her towards the elevator.

Even the elevator is somehow elegant. The walls are a darkly polished wood accented with bright brass rails, the carpet thick under her shoes; the smell of linseed oil and citrus hangs in the air reminding her of the embassy in Russia where the staff polished the wood surfaces so thoroughly and frequently, it reflected light.

"How did you find this place?" she asks as the elevator doors slide closed and she leans against the wall.

Giving a one shouldered shrug, he pushes 'seven' on the button panel. "I asked for recommendations."

"It's beautiful." She's also thinking she will be abandoning her plans to redecorate her bedroom because she'll be needing the money she saved for the project to pay for this sojourn. Loving luxury hotels means she also has a good idea of how much they cost, and this one, just from the sight of the lobby and the elevator, is on the opposite end of the spectrum from "affordable."

When the ding comes, indicating they have reached their floor, Rossi ushers her to the right and down the hall. She's waiting for him to give her a key card and tell her he's right next door when he stops in front of a room with a brass placard reading "Presidential Suite" and it's all she can do not to roll her eyes.

The door opens to a large living space, as elegantly appointed as the lobby had been, only on a smaller scale. Just not smaller by much.

Of course, it's Rossi, so...yes, of course.

"God, Rossi, this is bigger than my house." And the nightly cost is probably more than her mortgage.

"Two bedroom suite," he says. "They generally tend to run large."

If she weren't so tired she might give him grief about it being a _Presidential Suite_ or begin telling him she'll be paying him back, but she's really not up for the fight, so she just shakes her head and takes in her surroundings. Turning in a slow circle, she notes a dining area with a table that seats six with various items placed artfully in the center. She approaches to get a closer look and sees a sweating ice bucket with several small bottles nestled in amongst the ice.

"Your doctor said no alcohol," Rossi says from behind her, "so, the peach thing is yours. The beer is mine."

Upon closer inspection she sees a bottle of peach soda in the bucket with the beers. Beside the ice bucket rests a bowl of peaches and a tray of what looks like tarts with peach filling alongside candied peaches. But the masterpiece of the presentation is a picture of what Emily recognizes as Charleston's famed Rainbow Row in a chocolate frame resting on a chocolate easel. Her eyebrows go up as she turns to Rossi and he shrugs. "They include amenities..."

"With the two room Presidential Suite, yes, I'm sure," she nods, trying not to giggle at the utterly ridiculous lavishness of the experience.

Rossi looks at her with narrowed eyes. "Keep laughing, Prentiss, and I'm going to eat your picture frame."

That does make her laugh aloud, and he smiles in response. "I'm sorry it's just really...just wow."

"I know," he nods, and she believes he does. "Weren't you going to take a nap?"

"Oh, fine," she huffs, "shunting me off just because I laughed at your chocolate easel."

Cocking an eyebrow, he sheds his jacket, dropping it over the back of a chair. "No man likes his easel laughed at, Prentiss."

Snorting a laugh, she shakes her head. Her energy is thoroughly depleted, but she almost hates to go to bed; she finds herself enjoying this so much and considering the conflict of yesterday, she's loathe to let go of this comfortable camaraderie. But her body is demanding rest. "Which room is mine?"

He opens his hand in a careless gesture. "Take your pick."

The first room is decorated in rich cream and muted golds with a king sized bed, and the second is done in the same tones with two double beds. Deciding the least she can do is give him the nicer room, she enters the the double and closes the door. She takes off her jacket and slips off her shoes and moves to the bathroom to wash her face. When she returns to the bedroom she debates stripping down to her underwear or sleeping in her clothes when there's a knock on the door. "Em?"

She opens the door and finds Rossi holding her go bag along with a large white box. "They brought up your clothes."

Accepting the go bag, she gives a puzzled look at the box.

"Your laundry," he supplies.

It had been in her laundry bag in the other hotel room and she knows JJ probably grabbed it when she got the go bag, but the idea of Rossi handing her dirty underwear over to the concierge at this lavish hotel to be laundered makes her cheeks heat. "Thanks." She takes the box avoiding eye contact.

"Get some sleep," he says gently.

Scolding herself for being ridiculous, she sheds her clothes and puts on the same t-shirt and sleep pants that are serving as her night clothes this trip. They're worn and comfortable, but here in this room, in this hotel with Rossi next door she feels a little as if she should be wearing a slinky nightgown or at the very least, silky red pajamas with a mandarin collar. She smiles at the notion, thinking she should start smoking again so she could have a cigarette holder to add to the ensemble.

When she blinks her eyes open she's surprised to see light still seeping through the curtains. The sleep had been heavy and hard, and she's sure from the way her body feels that it was more than a couple of hours. She stays curled in the bed for a few minutes; she's warm and comfortable and a lethargy has settled over her, making her not want to move. Sadly, her bladder has other ideas about whether she should move or not and she eventually has to pay attention.

Reluctantly she moves out of the bed, noting the quiet murmur of Dave's voice in the other room as she passes the door. _On the phone,_ she thinks and then thinks she might need to call the office and check in. Well, she frowns at herself, call JJ or Garcia; calling Hotch would get her a lecture about the purpose of medical leave. Hopefully, since they're coming off a long run and they're two profilers down, the team will get pulled out of rotation and simply be doing paperwork and interviews.

While she's in the bathroom she brushes her teeth and her hair but decides to forgo makeup; she's not quite as washed out as she was yesterday and she doesn't want it to be quite so obvious just how much she cares what Rossi thinks. Deciding there's no need to put on clothes since he's already seen her pajamas, she does slip the t-shirt off to put on a sports bra, then slips the shirt back on. Satisfied with the compromise, she opens the door and moves out into the living area.

Rossi is seated on the sofa with his laptop open on the table in front of him and she catches the end of a sentence. "-do some sightseeing and relax for a couple of days." He looks up and sees her standing there. "Here she is," he tells the computer, beckoning to Emily.

She rounds the sofa expecting to see Garcia's image on the screen, but comes face to face with Cheryl instead.

"Emily!" The teenager squeals. "Are you okay? Uncle Dave said you were hurt."

Sighing, Emily sits on the sofa beside Rossi. "I'm fine, Cheryl. How are you?"

"Uncle Dave said you were in the hospital." The slightly distorted web cam visage of Cheryl bounces a little in her chair. "What happened?"

"It's not as bad as I'll bet he made it sound. It turned out fine, nothing to worry about." In order for Cheryl to see both of them, Emily has to scoot close to Dave and she is conscious of his warmth and the touch of his thigh against hers.

"She was slipped a roofie by a killer, kiddo, that's not nothing." Dave frowns.

"Oh!" Her eyes are huge. "This friend of Jenna's from Springfield? She went to a party and this guy slipped her a roofie, only it was too much and she died. She just stopped breathing."

Emily gives a warning look to Dave who looks like he's about to go on a tirade about teenagers and parties and says instead, "Yeah. It was bad. That's why you always need to be careful not to accept a drink from anyone else or let your drink out of your sight when you're out."

"I know! The safety officers talked to us about it." Cheryl is nodding. "Did you stop breathing?"

"Yes, she did," Rossi growls.

Emily gives him the tiniest bit of elbow in the side. "I was lucky your Uncle Dave was there."

The teenager's eyes are wide. "Did he have to resuscitate you?"

"He gave me mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance got there," Emily supplies. She gets that Dave wants Cheryl to be careful and this is a good cautionary tale, but she also doesn't want Rossi getting agitated again.

Cheryl sighs. "That is so romantic!"

Flushing, Emily is torn between mortification and amusement.

Rossi frowns at Cheryl and Emily has the feeling he's biting on his tongue, hard. "It wasn't all that romantic when we thought we were going to lose her."

"Emily, wow! That must have been scary." Cheryl is practically vibrating on the screen.

"What was scary was how mad your Uncle Dave was," she says dryly, hoping honesty and Dave's affection for the girl will defuse the situation. "Can we change the subject so he doesn't get mad all over again?"

Surprised, Cheryl laughs. "You bet! I know he can be a grouch when he's not happy."

"You have no idea," Emily returns with feeling.

"Hey! I'm right here," Rossi grumps.

"You don't have to be," his niece tells him sweetly. "You could go away and let me and Emily talk without you."

"Oh, no, you little criminal. I am well aware your nonna has probably paid you to hand over all Emily-related information and she's probably hired you to feed Emily lies and horror stories about me." His voice is dry and fond. "Emily just got out of the hospital. She is in no way prepared for the scheming Rossi women, even the junior version."

Showing him the dainty tip of her pink tongue, Cheryl doesn't look either guilty or repentant. "Fine. I'll e-mail you, Emily."

Emily smiles at the girl. "Please do."

There's a voice yelling in the background and Cheryl does the same eye roll Emily had seen at the wedding where they met. "Doofus can't set the table without me just once. I gotta go."

"Tell everyone I said 'hello,'" Emily says hurriedly.

"You bet!" Cheryl grins. "We should totally get to be buds."

Emily laughs. "You bet!" she echoes.

"Go help your brother," Dave says as another inarticulate yell comes through. "I love you, kiddo."

"I'm going. Love you, too, Uncle Dave. Bye, Emily!" Cheryl waves, then the call disconnects and the image collapses.

Dave leans forward to shut down the computer and Emily takes the opportunity to shift position so she's not pressed against him. "She's a great kid."

He smiles, faintly but affectionately. "Yeah, she is." He closes the laptop. "Thank you for taking an interest in her."

"I...I actually feel lucky she seems to like me." Grabbing one of the tasseled throw pillows she hugs it to herself. "I wouldn't have trusted somebody like me when I was her age. Of course, I didn't trust anybody then."

His eyebrow goes up. "Do you trust anybody now?"

It could have been a throw away line, just a teasing remark in the off and on banter the team seems to constantly engage in, but she takes a moment to think about it. Maybe it's the experience of Saturday night or the fight they had yesterday or just being in this setting that is completely different than what she's used to. "I trust the team," she responds slowly.

"That's work." His voice is serious, obviously picking up on her thoughtful moment.

Tilting her head, she plucks at a piece of the fringe on the tassel. "I'm not sure how much delineated work is from the rest of my life. It's like you said yesterday, we can't have a team like ours and not care about each other."

"Yeah." He rises and moves to the dining area. "We have to trust each other in the field and we've been through too much together not to feel a certain amount of affection for each other." He snags two glasses from beside the silver ice bucket. "But because of what we do, we're also very protective of our privacy." Sliding his hand into the bucket, he pulls two bottles out by their necks, frowning when water drips on the polished table. "What do we know about each other beyond the basics or what's come out on the job?" He brings the glasses and the bottles over to the coffee table, setting the wet bottles on top of a shiny copy of a periodical titled _Charleston: A Visitor's Guide._

Emily considers this as he goes back to the table and blots up the water with one of the linen napkins. Taking inventory of her personal knowledge of her coworkers, she realizes he's correct. For all that she goes out in the field with Hotch, Morgan and Reid everything personal she knows about them has come from information relevant to a case or from something that happened in the office.

Hotch almost seems to encourage this, as if maintaining professional boundaries with teammates will keep all of the horrors they see contained within business hours. She doesn't think he was this way when she first joined the team; there used to be more frequent team nights before Gideon left, before Haley left. Emily wonders if Hotch equates those two events to the intermingling of the personal with the professional; if he had kept the two separate, perhaps he wouldn't have lost them both. Maybe if he hadn't lost Haley then, he wouldn't have lost her permanently later.

JJ and Garcia are a little different, but she's not sure if they're more forthcoming because of their gender bond or because they're not profilers. Though, if she's honest with herself, she has to admit she's good at playing girlfriend, talking about shoes with JJ and bad dates with Garcia but she's always very careful not to reveal too much of herself with them, with _any_ of them.

Rossi, though, Rossi has been more open than any of the rest. Yes, he was legend at the Bureau, as much for his sexual exploits and failed marriages as for starting the BAU. And the whole team knew about Emma Schuler from the case in Commack. But he's also shared his family with her, allowed her to see him as more than a profiler, more than a team member or co-worker.

Reseating himself on the sofa beside her, Rossi uses the same napkin to twist the ridged cap off of the bottle of peach soda and begins pouring it into one of the glasses. He's not saying anything and she knows he's giving her time to think about his question. She's tempted to make a joke, to say she knows he was ready to fight for his sister's honor at the age of six or that he had a fairly extensive porn collection at the age of fifteen. But that feels like she's cheating, cheapening the moment, missing an opportunity. Taking a deep breath, she tries to quell the slight fluttering of the butterflies in her stomach; she's gotten so used to guarding herself she can't help the nervousness that accompanies the idea of opening herself up.

She swallows and loops her hair behind her ear. "You know things about me that no one else knows. On or off the team."

Inclining his head, he opens one of the beers. "You told me that during a case. It's not something you would have shared otherwise."

Her mouth opens, but she doesn't say what first comes to mind. Taking a breath, she picks up her glass and stares at the contents. "Knowing...that...didn't necessarily help solve the case. I didn't have to share it."

He looks at her, his gaze sharp enough she wonders why she doesn't bleed. "Prentiss." His voice is gentle in direct contrast to his look. "Is that your way of saying you trust me?"

Sipping from the glass, she lets the sweetness of the peach flavor rest in her mouth for a moment before she swallows. "There aren't a lot of people who know _any_ of my secrets." She bites the corner of her lip. "But you know all of them."

There's an unmistakable warmth in his eyes and he looks pleased beyond his ego being fed, but his tone is light, gently teasing when he says "All of them?"

_All but the one where I seem to have developed a teenager-like crush on you,_ she thinks. But he's giving her a way out of a serious moment and she really is grateful because she's about a purple gel pen shy of doodling their names in her notebook. So, she makes a face at him. "I work, I go home, I read. How many more secrets could I have?"

Looking amused, Rossi shakes his head. "You've got to be holding out on me, Prentiss. I work the same hours you do and I manage to fit more in than that."

"Oh, I just bet you do." She can hear the dryness in her tone and ignores the pinch in the center of her chest when she thinks about the _who_ more than the _what_ he might be fitting in. She ruffles the strings of the tassel then lets them slide against her hand, silken threads tickling against her fingertips.

He makes a disgusted noise. "I meant writing, Prentiss. Do you think I have a harem or something?"

"No." She shakes her head. "No. I think Morgan has a harem. I think you probably have one of those 'take a number' machines."

His eyes narrow dangerously. "Since you are freshly sprung from the hospital, I am going to ignore both the remark and the implications behind it." He purses his lips and she can't decide if he's really put out with her or not. "Haven't you ever heard you shouldn't believe everything you hear?"

"Yeah." She smiles and takes another drink of peach soda. "I didn't believe it."

Dave snorts and shakes his head again. "Change of subject, then." He pulls the leather-bound room service menu from the side table. "We can get room service tonight or I can go pick up some take out. If you're feeling up to it, we'll venture out tomorrow."

He puts the menu into her hands, then slips his reading glasses on and slides next to her to look over her shoulder at the menu. Inhaling a little, she takes in the scent of him, the expensive cologne and the scent of Rossi underneath, a little spicy, a little like freshly ironed cotton. Telling herself to get a grip, she concentrates on perusing the menu, trying to not think about Rossi over her shoulder, the slight sound of his breath, the brush of his arm against hers as he reaches out to turn the menu page after asking, "Ready?"

Finally, she just gives up. "You know what? I just...it all looks good. Why don't you order something for me?"

His look is...confused, and if it were anybody but Dave she'd say "adorably" so. But he's still Rossi, and while he's handsome, attractive, sexy even, adorable just does _not_ fit. She understands his confusion though; normally, she would object to such an old fashioned notion, she'd balk at giving up any of her power or control. Tonight, though, her main goal is to keep from making an idiot of herself.

They've been in too many intimate settings lately and it's blurring the lines for her about what's appropriate. He's a colleague and a friend and neither of those can be damaged by her misreading a situation. Or worse, getting her heart broken.

"Seriously." She pivots on the sofa so she's more facing him than by his side and hands him the menu. "Surprise me."

"Emily." He grins. "I'm not going to surprise you, I am going to impress you."

_If only..._ she thinks, then clamps down on the thought though she can't help the smile she gives him in response.

While he's studying the menu and making his choices, she goes to retrieve her laptop bag from where it's resting beside the door. Taking it back to the sofa with her, she pulls out the computer and turns it on to check her e-mail.

Dave makes a production of going into his bedroom to order their dinner, making her shake her head and laugh quietly to herself. She can do this, she decides, she doesn't have to make this more than it is, she can accept his friendship and be happy. Determined to be mature and do the right thing, she realizes it might take a little while to get over it, but she can do it without ruining their friendship or humiliating herself.

She hopes.

Opening her e-mail program, she decides when she gets home she'll do something different, join a book club or go on a date with one of the men her mother always seemed to think was perfect for her, just to change the pattern. If her life didn't so consistently revolve around the job maybe she wouldn't gravitate so much towards Rossi. Maybe if she changes the way things are it might change the way she feels.

There are e-mails from Morgan and JJ and six from Garcia, including a digital photo essay of "The BAU Sans Our Profiling Princess" consisting of a photo of her empty desk, Garcia feigning tears, Reid with his lip out, Morgan frowning down at an excessive pile of paperwork, JJ holding a sign that says "We Miss You," and a rather severe-looking Hotch, though Emily isn't sure if that one is there because he's supposed to be upset at her absence or if he wants Garcia to quit taking pictures and go back to work. But the little presentation does make her smile and she types a quick reply thanking Garcia for the love. She gives her a rundown of what the doctor said and tells her that she and Dave have switched hotels and plan on doing some sightseeing.

As she presses "send" a new e-mail appears in her inbox. Somewhat surprised, she sees it's from Cheryl.

_Hi, Emily!_

I just wanted to say I really am sorry you got hurt. I know I probably sounded like a giant dork, but I do know these things are serious. But I already knew you were all right or Uncle Dave would have been freaking out major big time. Anyway, I didn't want you to think I'm an insensitive jerk or anything.

I really would like to talk to you more about the Bureau. I mean, I know I still have a lot of time, but deciding what direction I want to go in now might make a difference what college I go to. I'll be a senior next year and it's time to seriously start thinking about schools, I guess.

Uncle Dave said you have your Masters but did you have to get it or did you just do that to get in the BAU? What did you major in as an undergrad? Did you go straight to grad school? Then straight to the FBI?

Really, I'm sorry to overwhelm you with questions.

You don't have to answer them all at once. Mainly I just wanted to apologize if I sounded like an idiot on Skype and tell you I'm glad you're okay.

I'm sure Uncle Dave is taking care of you. I hope you have fun in Charleston. Make him buy me a really cool present. ;)

Later,

Cheryl

Emily is snickering a little when Rossi comes back from ordering dinner and he looks at her in inquiry. "Cheryl said I'm supposed to make you buy her a really cool present."

He sits down next to her on the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him and his arm along the back. "She e-mailed you?"

Smiling, she nods, pleased when he answers with a smile of his own.

"Good." He stretches his hand a little further along the sofa and cups her shoulder gently, the warmth from his fingers and palm seeping through the cotton of her t-shirt and warming her down to the bone. "Thank you." His eyes have a warm light in them that makes her weak-kneed enough she's glad she's sitting and she's grateful when he moves his hand, since it makes it easier to think. "I'm doing what I can but I'm just a grumpy old great uncle. You're going to do better with her than I am."

"Please." Emily rolls her eyes in a way she's sure her new friend, Cheryl, would totally approve of. "That girl adores you."

Making a face that's not quite doubt, not quite concession, he gives her a frank look. "She likes her good old Uncle Dave, but that's not the same as seeing someone like you in action."

"A woman in the FBI?" Emily shifts and pulls her feet up on the sofa, locking her arms around her knees. "There are plenty of those."

"No." He reaches out for the remnants of his beer. "I don't care about her perception of women in the Bureau. What I care about is that she sees a successful, intelligent woman who has never compromised her integrity or played on the fact that she's beautiful to get ahead."

Emily is flushing hotly and knows there's no way to hide it, a fact confirmed by Rossi's chuckle. "Too many compliments at once, Prentiss? Good thing Cheryl doesn't need a role model that's self-assured or with a big ego."

If she could reach him, she'd smack him. As it is, she turns her attention back to her laptop with a mumbled, "You already have that covered.".

Their dinner cart arrives less than thirty minutes later accompanied by two smartly uniformed wait staff, one male, one female, both young with fresh faces and eager expressions. Emily watches as they move items from the cart to the dining table with crisp efficiency. The young man looks at them expectantly and Emily is confused for a minute, until Rossi offers her a hand off the sofa and holds her chair for her at the table.

She feels a little ridiculous in her pajamas in this elegant setting with people waiting on her, but neither Rossi or either of the waiters seem in the least bothered by it, so she gives a mental shrug.

"I'm Kristen," the female server says cheerfully as Rossi seats himself. "Thomas and I will be serving you this evening." Thomas is filling water goblets and Kristen continues, removing the silver lid from the tray with a bit of a flourish. "For the lady, to start we have a tuna sashimi served on a Greek salad, followed by our chef's specialty of lamb shank with feta polenta." She moves to the side of the table and a smaller tray, removing its cover as well. "And for dessert, chocolate crepes."

Thomas moves beside Rossi and lifts the lid on his tray. "For the gentleman, a starter of our special Charleston Grille crab cake followed by the main course of Palmetto squab breast." He steps to the side, pulling the lid from the smaller dish. "For afters we have a crispy coconut bread pudding."

"Does everything appear to be satisfactory?" Kristen is looking at Emily, her head tilted in a pose that reminds Emily of a curious puppy.

"Everything is..." Emily raises her eyebrows and slides a look in Rossi's direction "Impressive."

Kristen beams. "Very good, ma'am."

Thomas smiles as well. "We'll leave you to your meal then, if you don't require anything else." He hands a small leather booklet to Rossi. "Simply push the cart into the hall if you'd like the dishes cleared before the morning."

"Will do," Rossi says as he signs the bill and hands them each a folded bill. Emily watches, fascinated, as they actually bow and depart the room.

"Okay," she says when the door snicks shut. "You win. I am impressed."

"You haven't even tasted it, yet." He reaches for another beer and a fresh glass.

Shaking her head, she places her napkin in her lap. "I don't have to taste it to be impressed. Just _hearing,_ it was impressive. Besides, how could chocolate crepes not be impressive?"

He nods as he pours his beer. "Hard to go wrong with chocolate." His eyebrow quirks. "Unless, of course, it has cherries in it or it's been loaded with enough sedative to kill a Federal agent."

"Great." She takes a sip of water. "Thanks for ruining my dessert."

"Don't worry, Prentiss, I'm pretty sure one homicidal chef is all the Charleston can support." Smiling, he picks up his fork. "This hotel has been certified serial killer free."

"Good to know." She breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief. "I'm enjoying this hotel too much to let a serial killer ruin it."

"So, it isn't so bad being stuck here with me?" He cuts into his crab cake and she sees a small curl of steam rise from his plate.

She watches as he blows across the hot morsel on the end of his fork. "It's the other way around, isn't it? You're stuck with me?"

This time he shakes his head, "You would have been fine on your own. I wasn't kidding when I told Hotch I've always wanted to visit Charleston. I'm hanging on your coattails here."

Pulling her salad closer, she pushes her fork into a piece of the sashimi. "I really doubt that, but I do appreciate you trying to make me feel better about it."

"You might not be so generous when I'm dragging you around Fort Sumter later in the week." He smirks at her.

"Fort Sumter? Really?"

"Yeah." He nods. "My dad was a Civil War buff. I have no idea why since his great-grandparents were stomping grapes and herding goats in a village in Tuscany at the time it was going on and he didn't even get to this country until it had been over for more than fifty years, but he was always reading books about it." His smile is fond, warm with memory. "We even went to a few battle reenactments when I was a kid."

That she would have liked to see; a small, wide-eyed Davey Rossi watching the North and the South battle it out, cannons blazing. "This was your father/son time?"

"Oh, Hell, no. All of us got dragged into it. Rosalie was an expert on Gettysburg and Teresa can probably still quote battle stats...I'd put her up against Reid when it comes to that."

Emily snorts at that image, Reid losing a statistics battle to the diminutive Sister Teresa. "Please, Rossi, let's find a way to make that happen."

He grins. "I'll see what I can do."

The meal takes most of their attention, but they talk a little more about childhood vacations with their parents. Emily's cover more of the world but Dave's are a lot more entertaining, always seeming to involve some misadventure with him or one of his sisters in the starring role. Before she's even aware of the passage of time, it's almost midnight.

They both pile the dishes on the cart and Dave wheels it out into the hall. He glances at his watch. "This is the longest you've been awake since Saturday."

Her lips tilt up a little. "It feels good to be moving back towards normal."

He nods. "Still, you don't want to overdo it. Sleep as late as you want and we'll decide what to do when you get up."

Feeling a little as though she's been dismissed, Emily retrieves her computer, intent on e-mailing Cheryl before she goes to sleep.

"Leave that here, Prentiss. You need to rest." His tone is just close enough to paternal to make her want to do exactly the opposite of what he's told her to.

Instead, she cocks her hip and props a fist on it, trying to think of a mature response, though what she really wants to say is something along the lines of _You're not the boss of me, David Rossi._

Evidently, her expression must show exactly how she feels, because he holds up a hand in surrender. His voice, when he speaks, is much more conciliatory. "I am not trying to tell you what to do or order you around. You've been up for awhile and we'll be doing a lot of walking tomorrow if you want to sightsee." He sounds almost contrite. "I'd just like for you to get plenty of rest." He gives her a rueful look. "I may still have a bit of a hangover from you almost dying."

She looks at him searchingly, trying to see if he's sincere or just playing her to get his way. Then she reminds herself it's Rossi and he doesn't fake emotion to get his way, he just fights until people give up and give in. Still, the look she gives him is wary as she sets the computer back on the table. "I was just going to send Cheryl an e-mail. But I guess it can wait."

He opens his hands, palm up in a gesture of concession, "Like I said. Not ordering you around. You can sleep all day tomorrow if you want."

Still looking at him somewhat suspiciously, she moves away from the table. The e-mail can wait and if he really does want to play tourist, the least she can do is make it easy for him after all the trouble he's gone to for her. And, yeah, she's been known to turn her computer on and get caught up in e-mail and Tetris. He has a point, but she still feels a little as though she's being played.

His expression is blank, but she has the impression he is fighting laughter.

"All right then," she says with as much dignity as possible. "I'll do it in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, Emily."

She feels his eyes on her as she makes her way to her room; she almost turns back to offer him a smile, but decides against it, because she's trying to just act friendly, nothing more. Plus, she's not sure if she should be irritated with him since he's basically just sent her to her room.

Chrysanthemum is dark, and even though she can't see anyone else, all of the tables are filled. She turns to say something about the crowd to Morgan but it's Rossi sitting across from her. He smiles. "That dress is dangerous."

She looks down to see she's wearing her plaid pajama pants and her bullet proof vest with nothing on beneath it. _That should chafe,_ she thinks, but it doesn't.

"Don't get the fish," Hotch the waiter says, frowning fiercely. "It died of asphyxiation, not blunt force trauma like we originally thought."

Emily blinks and turns back to ask Rossi why Hotch is their waiter but in Rossi's place is the chef. "You need dessert," he says, grinning.

"No." She shakes her head. "No, I don't want dessert, I want Rossi."

"He's in the kitchen; follow me." The chef turns his back to her and begins walking to the kitchen. "Come on."

She knows she shouldn't follow him, but it's become absolutely imperative that she find Rossi; no one is safe until she finds Rossi. "Rossi?" she calls, still not wanting to follow, but then her surroundings shift and she is in the kitchen without having moved, only it isn't the kitchen of a restaurant, it's the kitchen of the embassy in Saudi Arabia, but the chef's not there and neither is Rossi, no one is there.

"Dave?" Her voice is a little louder this time.

There's a thumping noise, a pounding in one of the sinks, and she doesn't want to look but she has to. Cautiously, weapon drawn, she approaches to find there is an enormous fish in the sink, flailing helplessly in only about two inches of water, making a tremendous noise against the metal. There's not enough water for it to breathe properly and its eyes are huge and it's mouth is moving, seeming to gasp as it flails. Emily can feel the panic of the fish, feel its heart racing as it tries to breathe. Then she can't breathe. She has to find Rossi, if she can find Rossi she'll be able to breathe. Where is he? "Rossi?"

Her heart is thumping and she can't pull in any air, no matter how hard she tries. _I'm dying_ she thinks, but if she could just find him she'll be fine. "Rossi!" she cries and she can hear the gasp in her own voice as she calls again, "Rossi!"

"Emily!" The feel of his hands on her arms is a tremendous relief.

The kitchen fades away to the dark of her hotel room and the solid warmth of Dave beside her. "Rossi," she says, gratefully, burying her head against him.

"Are you all right?" he asks above her head, arms going around her.

Making an effort to even out her breathing, she nods against him, but she can still feel the pounding of her pulse in her ears. "Nightmare."

His arms tighten and he pulls her close. "It's okay," he says. "I've got you."

Her breathing is evening out, the adrenaline rush from the nightmare washing out like the tide; she feels warm and safe in his arms and she feels sleepiness stealing over her. She moves her arms around Dave and promises herself she'll remember to be strong and independent when she gets back to DC. "Stay," she mumbles against him, reaction and exhaustion pulling her down into sleep.

"Emily..." His voice is gentle with a touch of alarm around the edges.

Pressing her nose against him, she sighs. "Stay." She's fighting to explain, but she's mostly asleep. Instead, she leans back against the pillows, pulling him with her. "No nightmares."

He makes another noise of protest but she just clings and he slides down onto the sheets with her.

Eyes closed, she smiles against him as she feels him relax beside her on the bed. Snuggling in as close as she can, she settles against him and lets sleep take her down into blackness.

It's still dark when she wakes again and she smiles sleepily when she feels the warm weight of him against her.

"Mmmm?" he hums above her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she sighs back. They're so close her lips actually touch the skin of his neck when she speaks.

His arms tighten a little. "Sleep," he mumbles.

"Yeah," she repeats, just to feel his skin against her lips again.

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:** FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** This fic is the wonderful **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan. May I just say writing for her makes me feel a little like I'm presenting Da Vinci with a finger-painting? Yet she is gracious and generous and lovely regarding my attempts.

**smittywing** and **smacky30** are the best betas anyone could ask for. They giveth the comma, the hyphen and the em dash and they taketh away the incomplete sentence and poor sentence structure. They are amazing and I am very fortunate.

Previously posted on Livejournal.

* * *

When she wakes again, sunlight is peeking around the edges of the heavy draperies. _It's morning_ is her first bleary thought. As she comes slowly into something resembling consciousness, she absorbs the heavy weight of an arm thrown carelessly over her hip and that the mass of covers in front of her is not, in fact, bed clothes but a pajama-clad David Rossi. They're nice pajamas, she notes. The blue-striped cotton is soft against her where her t-shirt has ridden up and the sleeve is brushing against an exposed section of her skin. The material is equally soft against her fingers where her arm is bent between them and her hand is splayed over the heavy, steady thud of his heart.

Closing her eyes again for just a moment, she savors this. It's been a while since she's shared a bed with anyone, and even longer since she woke up in bed anything but alone. The last long-term relationship she had had been in Chicago and the break-up had been sudden, which they tend to be when you find the person you're practically living with screwing a coworker on his desk when you stop by to surprise him with dinner when he's "working late." So, the last time she woke up with someone, she didn't know it would be the last time in, literally, years.

Robert, while being quite proficient at the technical aspects of sex, had not been a cuddler. Once the orgasms were achieved he was pretty much hands off, staying on his side of the bed. She's trying to remember if she's ever slept in anyone's arms; not that she can lay all of the blame at the feet of the men she's slept with. While she's sexually confident she's socially awkward, and she knows her nervousness and fear of doing the wrong thing often translates to _Don't touch._ Being a profiler doesn't leave a lot of room for self-deception; afterall, Emily has the inside scoop on her psyche. Sex is easy; it's chemistry and biology as well as an awful lot of fun. It's goal-oriented and easy to gauge if it's been successful. Sex, in her experience, has seldom been a problem. She's never been in a situation where a man would reject a physical gesture with sexual overtones.

She has, however, experienced the rebuff of a hug, the rejection of a kiss. Other physical affection is a lot riskier emotionally, and if she doesn't offer affection beyond sex, there's no chance of being rejected. No overture means no opportunity for humiliation or reinforcement of the notion that she is unworthy of love and affection.

The safest thing is to save hugs for her friends, kisses on the cheek for those she trusts. There's no risk of rejection, no message that she's not good enough or not doing it right. It's simple, it's comfortable, it's easy.

This, though, this is new. While Rossi is her friend, not her lover, his arms around her have set up an intense longing for something more in her life. What would it be like to wake up every morning with the weight of an arm over her hip? For the first sensation she experiences every day to be the touch of her skin against someone else's?

When she looks up, she sees his eyes are open. His expression is serious, and she feels herself blushing furiously when it suddenly occurs to her she just woke up after sleeping with a coworker. _Just_ sleeping, but still. She recalls pretty much forcing him to stay and her blush gets hotter.

"Stop." His voice is scratchy, but still quite firm.

"What?" she asks, trying to find somewhere to look that's not into his eyes without it being obvious she's not looking into his eyes.

"Stop that thing you do when you think you've made some sort of a blunder, where you beat yourself up and get all weird." He hasn't removed his arm from her body, and she doesn't want to point it out and make things that much more awkward.

"I'm not..."

He moves his head the fraction of an inch it takes to force her to look into his eyes. "You are and you need to stop."

"Rossi," she begins, but she really doesn't have anything to say when she meets the stern set of his mouth coupled with the kindness of his eyes.

"We all have nightmares, Emily. All of us." He moves his head against the pillow as if nestling deeper into it. "And not all of us nearly died a few days ago. You don't have to be Superwoman all the time, you know. It's okay to need comfort every now and then."

"I'm not trying to be Superwoman," she grouses, just a little flipped out she's having this conversation while horizontal, in a bed, with Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi in the same bed, equally as horizontal.

"What do you call it then?" Emily can't tell if he's trying to challenge her view of herself or call her on what he perceives as self-deception. "You seem to think you've failed if anything we see or do impacts you personally. Keep things in their neatly labeled boxes, and don't let yourself be touched. How long do you think you can go like that before you start to burn out?" His words are harsh, but his tone is even. "Being successful at this job isn't about not being affected, Emily. Being successful at this job is about catching the bad guys and the madmen. It's about looking into the blackness, knowing what's there and being able to look in the mirror the next day. And sometimes that costs us."

She nods her head, unable to speak.

"You think," his voice gentles, "I don't know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night from a dream like that? Trust me, there's no one on the team that doesn't know what that's like."

His eyes are warm and kind, and she remembers Indiana, remembers him talking about the Galen children's screams echoing in his head, the cries that never stop. She wonders who was there to hold him when those nightmares came to call.

"It's easier sometimes," she manages, "to just shut it all away."

He nods and finally moves his arm from across her hip, but it's only so he can use his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. "That's okay, too. But, maybe you could...I don't know...maybe allow yourself a week off from all that considering you were almost the victim of a serial killer? Maybe let yourself off the hook for a nightmare or two or letting someone see you cry or needing a little extra sleep? I'm sure it's against the Superhero rule book or something, but I promise not to let anyone know."

His half-teasing, half-sarcastic tone makes her feel light and a little ridiculous at the same time.

"Fine, fine." She rises up on her elbows, then remembers she is braless and that particular position puts her breasts on display, so she hastily scrambles up to a sitting position, allowing the folds of her roomy t-shirt to cover the shape of her chest.

Dave is watching her, looking amused as he stretches. "But, I gotta tell you, Prentiss, if you have a nightmare tonight we're moving to the King-sized bed."

She can feel herself blushing but she doesn't want another lecture, so she seizes the only option open to her; grabbing the closest pillow, she smacks him over the head with it, then slides off the bed and runs for the bathroom followed by a growled, "Prentiss" and a hail of down-filled projectiles.

They eat breakfast at the hotel. They bypass the more decadent offerings and get their usual; cereal and a banana for Rossi, an apple and a strawberry yogurt for Emily. Charleston is a beautiful city with loads of charm, but if she keeps eating like she has been she isn't going to fit in any of her clothes when she gets home. Though to be fair, the first really over the top meal shouldn't count since it was pumped out of her stomach; not exactly the most comfortable or reliable diet plan, she thinks with a dark smile.

They both answer e-mails after breakfast. Emily has another four e-mails from Garcia filled with lightness and silliness that make her both smile and wonder if Penelope ever actually sleeps. After answering, she composes a quick e-mail to her neighbor Sheila, asking her to continue to pick up her mail through the end of the week. Then Emily crafts a careful reply to Cheryl, trying to encourage without being overly enthusiastic; she doesn't want to make the girl feel any pressure. She makes a mental note to talk to Dave about having Cheryl come to visit over the summer. It might be a little complicated since she obviously thinks Emily and Dave are a couple, but they could work around that. Cheryl could even stay over at Emily's; she smiles at the thought. The constant moving around when she was growing up prevented her from ever having many girlfriends and even fewer giggly, girlie sleepovers. Somewhat ruefully she wonders for whose sake she wants Cheryl to come visit.

Rossi pulls her out of her reverie, asking if she's ready. When she nods and closes her computer, he tells her to make sure to put on comfortable shoes because they'll be walking a lot. She is privately amused at David Rossi, tourist, but goes to the bedroom to put her hair in a ponytail and put on her cushy loafers before rejoining him in the living area.

They set off on foot, and though he had seemed eager to get started earlier, the pace is leisurely and she's glad of the fresh air and the sun. It's spring and warm, the sky is a brilliant blue and there are flowers and trees in bloom. In DC spring was only beginning to awaken when they left, but here, 500 miles south, it is in full regalia. Despite the many buildings and busy streets, the plant life is abundant; tulips and daffodils nodding their heads in agreement with the slight breeze that she guesses is coming off the water and the wisteria is drooping over buildings and streets alike and the bees are buzzing in a delighted dance around the flowers, high and low.

"Wow," she breathes, stopping.

"What?" He looks around as if trying to see what caused her exclamation.

"How did I not notice this before?" She waves a hand around her. "I just remember seeing a couple of daffodils when we got here, not this entire spring thing."

Face solemn, he nods. "Part of the amenities package for the two room suite."

Laughing a little, she starts walking again; if it were possible, she wouldn't put it past him. "You really do know how to live, Rossi."

Grinning at her, he resumes his steps beside her. "It wouldn't hurt you to live a little, Prentiss."

"You might have to show me how." Too late she realizes that might sound a little too flirty, maybe even suggestive; she looks down at her feet and picks up her pace.

Thankfully, Rossi doesn't miss a beat. "I'll get right on that. You might start by slowing down a little."

Risking a look at his face she sees him smirking at her, but it's no more than his usual self-satisfied smirk; there's nothing in it that's sexual or indicates she just made a fool of herself, so she shakes her head and slows her pace. "Are we going to Fort Sumter today?"

Indicating a turn, he shakes his head. "No, I thought we'd do that tomorrow. We can just walk around today. We can take a tour if you want or go it alone. The only thing I have planned is our first stop, City Market." He gives her a smile. "Not only a place of historic significance but a place to buy a teenage girl a really cool gift." Lifting an eyebrow in question, he asks, "If you'll help me pick something out?"

"God, Rossi, I get to expand my cultural horizons and help you spend your money on girlie things?" She looks at him from under her lashes. "This day could not get any better."

Emily congratulates herself for not jumping or shivering when he puts a guiding hand on the small of her back. "We're just getting started, Prentiss. Pace yourself."

"The Market," as it's called, is nothing short of amazing. The three buildings, each a city block long, stretch out, housing a multitude of vendors selling everything from spices and t-shirts to artwork and jewelry. Emily is especially fascinated by the women weaving the sweetgrass baskets outside each of the buildings.

Most of them are well over middle-aged, and a few are downright elderly. One of these women sits on a small stool, her wares spread out before her, baskets of different sizes and shapes fanning out on a colorful cloth she has spread on the ground in front of her. Her brown hands reach for the pieces of sweetgrass as she adds them to the basket currently resting in her lap. Emily notes the specialized callouses on the woman's short fingers as she pulls the stalks through the basket she's weaving. Her face is unsmiling but not harsh as she continues to work, unmindful of her audience, never acknowledging anyone's presence unless they speak to her, asking about a design or a price.

"Kind of pricey for a basket," a man says as he brushes by and Emily wants to hold him still and explain about art, tradition and the value of something being handcrafted, but the touch of Rossi's hand between her shoulder blades brings her attention back to the woman just in time to see her begin fashioning the handle.

The rhythm of it is fascinating to Emily, the way the thick, elderly fingers push, pull and shape the materials into a rather large basket. She's a little awed, standing in a beam of sunlight with Dave standing beside her silently as they both watch the woman create a piece of art that is both functional and beautiful.

"We should get one," Dave says as a customer approaches the woman.

"I'd love to," she sighs. "But it wouldn't live through the flight back."

He grunts wordlessly, as if that hadn't occurred to him.

"Come on." She gently tugs on his arm, pulling him towards the next building. "I believe we're on a mission to find a 'really cool' present."

For a minute she senses a reluctance, as if he'd like to linger, but it doesn't last and he allows himself to be led towards another building of vendors. By the time they're through, two pairs of earrings and a tie-dye shirt have been purchased for Cheryl and a t-shirt has also been acquired for Michael. "I at least don't want it to _look_ like I'm playing favorites," he says blandly.

"Though you totally are." She grins at him.

"Totally," he says in a fair imitation of one of his nephews and she laughs aloud.

Emily picks up a necklace for JJ, several brightly colored (and feathery) headbands for Garcia, a small print of Rainbow Row for Hotch, candy for both Reid and Morgan and a bracelet for her mother. While Rossi talks to an elderly man selling spices, she wanders around the other stalls on that end of the building. Looking back toward the spice booth, she sees the older gentleman sitting on his stool reading a cooking magazine and Rossi nowhere in sight. Shrugging to herself, she moves to the next vendor; it's easy to get distracted and wander away in places like this. He'll catch back up to her, she knows.

When she sees the fringes hanging from the inside of the next booth, she gasps a little. The most delicate scarves and colorful shawls decorate the partition that make up the walls of the stall. The tables are covered with more materials, as well as well as hand-beaded earrings. Everything is _gorgeous_; satins, brocades, velvets, and silks in swirls of color, patches of beading, tassels and fringe. Touching each with tender fingers, she is almost too awed at the artistry to speak to the young man with jet black hair and heavy eyeliner who turns out to be the craftsman behind the pieces. His name is Grant, he can't be more than twenty and he is actually quite shy; she figures that's why he chose the Goth look, to appear less approachable. When he reaches up to pull down a shawl she wants to see, she notes the old, round cigarette burns on the skin of his lower back where his shirt rides up; just from that small strip of skin she sees at least a half a dozen and that tells its own story about why he might want to appear less approachable.

After a somewhat one-sided conversation that leaves him blushing and flattered, Emily treats herself to a red and black embroidered shawl and a pair of long, dangling earrings that match it beautifully. She admires the way the two items look together in one of the ornate mirrors Grant has on each of his tables.

"Very pretty." Rossi says, appearing suddenly in front of her. Though he's startled her a little, she does note he's not carrying any items other than what he left with; whatever it was that distracted him and caused him to wander away was apparently not worth buying. Of course, she thinks to herself a little cynically, it might not have been a what, but a who. Then she shuts that down; he can follow whoever he wants, he's under no obligation to her. He's merely shown her a few kindnesses; they're friends and coworkers and it is _so_ going to suck if he tells her she's on her own for dinner, because he has a date.

Embarrassed by her line of thought, she feels her cheeks heating and rapidly begins speaking. "Rossi, these shawls are gorgeous."

One hand casually resting in a pocket, the other holding his purchases for Cheryl, he turns in a circle, admiring Grant's work. "They are." He aims a serious look at the young man. "This is beautiful work."

Grant's features brighten with a pleased little smile before he ducks his head and begins folding some scarves.

Dave makes another slow circle. "Emily, do you think my mother would like one of these?"

The gentle spread of warmth in her chest matches the spread of the smile on her face. "There's not a woman I know that wouldn't love one of these."

He gravitates toward a richly embroidered black one, "Mama would love this with her church dresses." But Emily suggests a more vibrant blue with long fringe saying it will be a perfect foil for Angela's hair. In the end, they both agree on a shimmering bronze with delicate beading along the edge; it's beautiful and vibrant without being flashy.

"That blue one, though, that would be great for JJ," he says as he hands the material over to Grant. "Which one do you think would suit Garcia?"

Emily grins. "Something bright."

"Profile much?" Rossi asks, dryly. "Your insight is astonishing."

Letting her eyes run over the shawls, she approaches a gleam of bright yellow hidden under a stack of darker hues; when she pulls it out she gives a little laugh of delight at the pink and green beaded fringe.

"It's reversible," Grant mumbles and she unfolds it to see the inside is painted with pink and green polka dots that perfectly match the beads.

"Rossi." She flips the polka dot side for his inspection. "I think we have a winner."

His eyebrows climb and he nods. "That is meant for Penelope Garcia." He turns to Grant. "You couldn't have custom made anything better for her."

The young man beams as he accepts the shawl from Emily.

Rossi's head is tilted back, looking at the selections draped on the walls. "What about your mother?"

"I already bought her a bracelet." She's gently lifting each stack of shawls, looking for another unexpected find.

He frowns. "That's nice. But I meant from me."

"What?" Startled, she turns to look at him, mouth agape.

He gestures around them. "You're right; these are beautiful things. They're rare, one of a kind. They strike me as something your mother would appreciate."

Emily folds her arms. "When did you and my mother become such good friends?"

"Do you know what she did, Prentiss? Evidently a little bird told her I drink Scotch." He shakes his head. "She sent me a case."

"I told you she'd be grateful and want to know what she could do for you." Emily had, indeed, received a call from her mother the day after the ball and had been the little bird in question. "A case of Scotch is not that big of a deal, she can afford it."

"Prentiss." He levels his gaze at her. "It was a case of Johnny Walker Blue."

"Okay." Her eyes widen. "Okay. That is a big deal."

"It would have been rude to send it back, not that I even wanted to. But," his hands open in a gesture encompassing the tables. "I'd like to get her something; it's just a token, really." He leans in a little and lowers his voice. "Besides, think what it would do for this young man's business if Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss wears something he made."

One side of his mouth tilts up and she blinks at him, before she fully absorbs what he's saying, then she nods. "I should get her one, too."

Rossi chooses a classic black velvet evening shawl with a white satin lining and black silk fringe with tiny crystal beads knotted at the end. In the end, Emily chooses one of his hand-dyed scarves instead of another shawl, easily imagining her mother wearing the silk dyed in graduated shades of red, from palest pink to screaming scarlet.

Then Dave decides each of his sisters and Cheryl need a scarf. They take a long time over the choices, factoring in each woman's coloring as well as their personal style. Though he asks for her help, he has definite opinions, and they squabble over a couple of the selections. But it's light-hearted and she realizes, somewhat surprised, she's having fun. By the time they've made their choices, and Grant has carefully wrapped everything, Rossi has paid an amount that makes Emily blink and Grant nearly giddy. It's almost lunch time and they decide to head back to Charleston Place to drop off their Market loot before deciding what to do the rest of the day.

"I grabbed a couple of his business cards," Emily says as they carry their packages back towards the hotel.

"Good." Rossi shifts his bags from one arm to the other and takes another from her, despite her severe look. "I think he put a card in with each thing."

"I'm not so weak I can't carry two pounds of candy, Rossi," she gripes uselessly, then sighs. "Good, about the cards. I noticed he had a website; hopefully, he's about to get a lot busier." She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "Doing that for him? It was a good thing."

He just grunts and she smiles as they walk on.

Emily might be more tired than she's willing to admit when they get back to their suite. She feels ridiculous; all she's done is walk a few blocks and shop, but she feels a little like she feels when they've been up for two days straight trying to pin down a profile or chasing an unsub. Disgusted with herself, she kicks off her shoes and collapses on the sofa, grateful when Rossi doesn't say anything. But she can't miss the vertical lines between his eyebrows or the way his mouth tightens like it does when he's not happy about something.

After he drops the gifts from the Market in his room, he comes back with the room service menu in hand.

She can't help the laugh that escapes, even though she knows it sounds tired. "Dave, I swear, you do not have to feed me every five minutes."

One eyebrow goes up and the other goes down in a face that she thinks is supposed to look severe but just looks kind of silly, even for Rossi. "I am not feeding you every five minutes, Emily." She snorts and the look moves to mock affronted. "I am feeding me; you're just collateral damage. Vacation is all about the experience and a good part of experiencing any new place is the food." He sits on the sofa next to her and fishes out his reading glasses. "It's not like I eat like this all the time and trust me, the trainer at the gym is going to take it out of my hide one way or another. At least, this way, I'm going to deserve it."

He is remarkably fit; it's not like his biceps threaten to bust the seams of his shirts like Morgan's, but he seems to be in good shape. And, yes, she pays particular attention to his forearms when his shirt sleeves are rolled up. She had managed to feign a decent amount of surprise and indifference when Garcia pointed out he had a nice ass; Emily had noticed that from the beginning. Actually, Emily might have noticed that when she saw him on a book tour in Chicago three years before she joined the BAU.

"Besides," he continues, "I wasn't thinking about eating this minute." He flips to a page towards the back of the menu. "They do picnic baskets; we could go to Battery Park and eat there. They ask for a two hour window to prepare it. Would you mind hanging out here until they get it together?"

Ruefully, she shakes her head. He's trying so hard not to look as if he's babying her and it's out of character for him. Normally, he'd probably just yell at her to rest and threaten to lock her in her room; anyone who's known her for more than ten minutes probably knows she doesn't take kindly to being told what to do, but that's never stopped Rossi from trying before.

She'd give him grief about it, but she really is tired and she appreciates that he's concerned enough about her well-being that he would change his own natural behavior to get her to rest. Because, for once, she is giving him the benefit of the doubt that he wants her to do what is best for her, not just do what he wants her to do. It doesn't take a profiler to figure out everything that happened between Saturday night and Sunday morning still has him a little flipped out; so, really, the best thing to do is what he wants her to do, which is also what she wants to do and what is best for her. It's an all around win, but she still feels like she should offer some resistance with still being fourteen and all, she thinks.

"That sounds perfect." She loops her hair behind her ear and smiles at him a little shyly. "I guess I didn't realize how weak I still am."

He looks relieved and a little surprised, but he covers it immediately with a wry expression. "Comas tend to do that; even short, medically induced ones."

Laughing, she pulls her feet up onto the sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Besides, who am I to turn down a picnic in the park on a beautiful spring day? It sounds like heaven."

"Okay, then." He attempts to hand her the menu. "Which picnic do we want?"

She keeps her hands firmly clasped around her legs and shakes her head. "No, sir. If food is your way to experience a new place, then you choose the experience."

Giving her a narrow eyed glare, he withdraws the menu. Then he grins at her suddenly. "I had no idea you had such a need to give up control, Prentiss."

That earns him her best scowl, but he just grins a little wider and gets up to go call room service. Stretching out on the sofa, she listens to the murmur of his voice on the phone and is mostly asleep when he returns with a book in hand. "Sorry," she mumbles, starting to move, but he hushes her, lifts her feet and slides back onto the sofa resting her calves across his lap.

Even if it's just for friendship sake, she likes how tactile he is, she decides as she slides a little closer towards sleep. There are two armchairs where he could have sat or he could have gone to read in his room. She likes how he seems to want the company, even if they're not doing anything. The thought makes her smile as she gives in and goes to sleep.

When she wakes, he's still reading, one hand casually resting against her legs. It's a rare opportunity to watch him without the usual masks and guards, the walls and protection they use with everyone, including each other. His face is relaxed and he looks content, which is not something she would necessarily think would look good on any of them; they're all too focused, too driven. Yes, that's part of what makes them good at what they do, but it doesn't leave a lot of time for contentment or room for serenity.

"You're staring," he says, eyes never leaving the book. "If you haven't profiled me by now, staring at me while I read is not going to give you any greater insight."

She moves her leg up enough to bump his book. "I'm not staring, I'm looking; there's a difference."

Turning his head, he makes a _bullshit_ face at her, but doesn't say anything; instead, he deliberately replaces his bookmark and turns to look at her. "Good to see you awake again, Snow White."

Frowning at him fiercely, she slides up to a sitting position so her feet are now resting on his thigh. "That's the second time you've compared me to Snow White. Sleeping Beauty was my favorite princess, I'll have you know."

Looking mildly amused, he places his book on the side table. "They're both asleep against their will and you look more like Snow White."

"But," she argues, "Sleeping Beauty had a color changing dress and I really, seriously wanted one of those."

"Ah, I see." He somehow manages to pull off looking sage while obviously wanting to laugh at her. "I am unaware of the finer points of which is the best princess...sorry."

"I'm surprised your sisters didn't educate you." She stretches her arms over her head, pulling out the kinks in her muscles.

"Gabriella was the only one that hadn't outgrown fairy tales by the time I can remember...she was enamored of Cinderella."

"I liked Cinderella, too." Running a hand through her hair, she wonders how bad it looks from her nap. "But she didn't have a color changing dress," she points out reasonably.

"Actually," he says, angling his torso so he's facing her, "I like the new crop of heroines better, Mulan, Ariel, Belle...they didn't wait for a man to rescue them."

Emily is aware her mouth is open, a true reflection of her astonishment: whether it's from David Rossi actually being current on his children's movie heroines or that he's thought that much about them. "You watch much Disney?"

His lips purse as he gives her a dry look. "You think I have as many nieces and nephews as I do without being aware of children's pop culture?" He taps the top of her foot. "Also, I taught a class on child predators at the Academy before I retired. Sad to say, getting into their heads means realizing the most innocent things can be used for perversion."

It is sad; it's also the hardest part of the job, knowing how easily innocence can be snatched away and once innocence is lost, it's lost forever.

"Allowing heroines to evolve, I think, has actually helped make fewer victims," he opines. "The 'waiting for the Prince to rescue me' mentality is slowly giving way to one of 'I'm smart and resourceful, how do I handle this?' It might sound silly, but not waiting for rescue may have saved a young girl's life a time or two. And any life saved is a win. Of course, preying on the 'searching for Prince Charming' is how a lot of predators manage to be so successful."

Emily has no argument with any of what he's said, she agrees with all of it, though she does find herself making a slight adjustment to her view of him. His manners are always impeccable, old fashioned, chivalrous even, so to hear something sounding so much like theories they'd discussed in her Women's Studies classes coming out of his mouth is a little mind boggling. It's not that she thinks of him as a chauvinist, but she has to admit he's surprised her; of course, it's not the first time and it probably won't be the last.

"You should write that." Sitting up a little straighter, she looks at him earnestly. "Seriously; it would be a great book."

Laughing, he shakes his head. "No, I don't think so." Then his expression shifts to something speculative, almost hesitant. "I've actually been thinking about writing a book about Benjamin Cyrus. Well, really, I've been thinking about asking you to write a book on Benjamin Cyrus with me."

Emily boggles at him. "What?"

"I've been meaning to ask you -" His tone is slow and exaggeratedly patient. "- If you would be interested in coauthoring a book on Benjamin Cyrus and the standoff in Colorado with me."

"Rossi." Astonished doesn't even begin to cover what she feels at this moment. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Think about it; it can be really demanding and it would take up what little free time you have. But I think you'd enjoy writing. And you'd be good at it." He's not being condescending or cajoling, he's just laying out facts. "We could both do the background writing, then I could write what happened outside during the standoff and you could write what happened inside."

Her mouth snaps shut as she becomes aware she must look ridiculous, she's so surprised. "Rossi, I..."

"Prentiss." He lifts her feet and stands. "How are you going to think about it if you won't be quiet?" He grins when her expression shifts from shocked to indignant. "Besides, our picnic basket should be ready and I'm starving. Some people didn't sleep half the afternoon away." He drops her feet unceremoniously. "Get ready, let's go."

Huffing, she slides off the sofa and stalks to her room. _It's no wonder he's been divorced three times,_ she grumbles to herself, _he's lucky he hasn't been murdered three times._

The afternoon is warm where the morning had been temperate and Emily slips off her jacket as they walk towards the park. Again, she lets Rossi set the pace and again, his stride is leisurely rather than goal-oriented; she wonders how much of that is his vacation attitude and how much is his consideration of her health.

In all honesty, she doesn't recall sleeping so much since the week after a particularly heinous midterm week at Yale, but other than that she feels mostly normal. Even last night's nightmare wasn't out of the ordinary; she always has bad dreams after an especially difficult case, not to mention one that puts her in the hospital. Still, she tells herself as a horse drawing a carriage clomps by, taking the opportunity to relax a little doesn't make her weak. Everybody needs to recharge once in awhile, and she can take these few days and make the most of them. If nothing else, the break from the paperwork is a welcome respite.

The tourist and commercial areas have quickly thinned out to beautiful antebellum homes increasing in size the closer they get to the Battery. Trees and vines climb over the walls that enclose each home's green space, shading the inner yard and the outer sidewalk alike. As they walk, Emily unabashedly looks through the gates, getting a small glimpse into the world behind the walls. She sees well tended gardens, brick pathways, jetting fountains and, in one instance, an ancient gray Great Dane looking out the gate with a mournful, yet dignified, expression.

Rossi is patient while she stops to talk to the beast, and the animal allows her to reach her hand through the gate and gently rub his head. She thinks he must be used to tourists, and she's never known a dog that didn't appreciate a head rub when offered by a friendly soul at the right time. Briefly, she considers giving him something from the picnic basket, but she doesn't think she's ever seen a dog that looks quite as old as this one does, and she'd be willing to wager his digestive system is delicate.

"Good boy," she croons softly as he attempts to lick her wrist as she rubs. "Such a good boy."

Watching her, smiling slightly, Rossi leans against the brick wall, picnic basket in hand. "He's trying to kiss you for rubbing him. That makes him a good boy?"

Giving one last pass over the dog's huge head, Emily stands. "Reciprocity is always good when it comes to affection."

"If only my third wife had felt that way." He sighs dramatically, and begins walking again. "Please feel free to forgo all the jokes about my being a dog. Even an old one."

Snorting out a little laugh, she falls into step beside him. "Why would I do that when you're trying to take all the fun out of it?"

It doesn't take them long to reach Battery Park; across the street from a strip of antebellum mansions, overlooking the water, the strip of lush green grass was shaded by huge oak trees and dotted with monuments. Rossi picked a flat spot away from any of the giant tree roots and out of the immediate path to any of the monuments (including cannons and a pyramid of cannon balls) but well within sight of the water. "This all right?" he asks but he was already reaching into the basket for the gingham picnic cloth.

"Perfect." Emily grabs the opposite end of the cloth and helps him spread it evenly over the patch of ground they've temporarily claimed as their own.

"That's the Cooper River - " He nods to the opposite end of the point, then leans his head to the right. "This is the Ashley. Out there -" He points out onto the water where Emily can see an island flying a flag above a structure, "- Is Fort Sumter and the Atlantic Ocean." He looks back at the basket and begins pulling items out. "In here, is lunch."

Emily doesn't even blink at the lavishness of the items included in the basket; the combination of the knowledge that Dave appears to have mastered to art of gourmet ordering and the first class nature of everything she's experienced so far from the hotel have robbed her of the ability to be surprised. However, the two do not stop her from smiling over the sumptuous repast set out before her.

"I am going to go into hock paying you back," she laughs as she reaches for the elegantly presented shrimp.

His face immediately changes to a fierce scowl. "Paying me back?" He shakes his head as he reaches for a plate. "I don't think so, Prentiss."

"Come on, Dave!" She huffs out a breath. "You've spent a fortune; of course I'm paying you back...at least part of it." She dredges the shrimp through the cocktail sauce.

His look, if possible, gets darker. "You're not giving me a dime. I told you, I've always wanted to come here; this was a great opportunity."

Discarding the shrimp tail, she sucks a stray dollop of sauce off her thumb. "If you weren't babysitting me you could have made your own decisions about _when_ you made this trip and _who_ you made it with."

"The where is the whole point, Prentiss," he grouses, putting some sliced tenderloin on his plate. "Sometimes I think you just like fighting with me." He snaps one of the linen napkins open. "Don't you believe in serendipity, Emily? Sometimes taking an unexpected opportunity is better than planning something for years. Expectations aren't overwhelming and it's easier to let go and enjoy yourself." He looks at her carefully. "Unless you're not enjoying yourself?"

A laugh bursts from her at the sheer ridiculousness of that statement. "Are you kidding? This is..." She tries to think of a word and falters, shrugs and finishes, "Incredible. Amazing."

"Good." He slices some gouda and adds it, along with a few crackers to his plate. "Then just enjoy it. I haven't done anything I wouldn't have done if I'd come on my own."

She almost argues the extra meals and the second bedroom, but decides that isn't the direction she wants to go.

"Dave, really. I am enjoying it. This is fabulous, but I'd like to..."

He points a finger at her. "If you're about to say something to me about paying me back you should probably know you are very close to pissing me off."

"Oh, that's really hard to do, too," she says dryly.

"Okay, _smartass_." The severe look is back. "You are precariously close to insulting me. And _that_ is not so easy to do."

No, it's not, she knows that. He has a temper and he likes his way, but he's also generally accepting of other people's quirks and foibles. And while he has a robust ego, he isn't prone to take offense easily.

Instantly, she's contrite. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to insult you."

"Oh, I'm sure if you were trying you would have gotten here a lot quicker." He offers the container holding the chicken salad to her. "It's not a big deal, okay? I'm having a good time."

Emily starts to protest, wanting to ask how he can be having a good time when all he's done has been her nursemaid, but she manages to bite her tongue before any of it gets out, instead offering a simple, "Thank you."

They're quiet for awhile, though it's not awkward, it just seems the issue is settled and they're both intent on the decadent lunch in front of them. Still, when he pushes his plate away and stretches out on the cloth, she pays attention as he begins speaking. "If you really feel like you need to pay me back, seriously consider the book thing."

"I _am_ thinking about it," she assures him, picking at a small portion of a grape in the chicken salad. "I just...why? Why would you want me to write a book with you when you could write it yourself?"

He's resting on one elbow, looking unruffled and very Rossi. "Because you were there on the inside, you know how it happened."

"So does Reid," she supplies. "You could write with him."

"God forbid." Rossi raises a hand. "You know I love Spencer just as much as the rest of you." She's not sure if he means he loves Reid as much as he loves the rest of the team or if he means he loves Reid the way everyone else on the team seems to love Reid with a sort of exasperated and protective fondness. "But about five minutes in I'd be looking for my service weapon to put one of us out of our misery."

"So, I'm malleable and Reid isn't?" The grape bit, clasped between thumb and index finger, finally makes it to her mouth.

Barking out a laugh, Rossi shakes his head. "There are many things you are, Prentiss, but malleable is not one of them." She snaps her napkin against his bicep and he winces. "It was meant as a compliment."

Emily makes a doubtful and slightly indignant noise as she reaches for the brie. "Reid was with Benjamin Cyrus towards the end; he knows more about what was going on than I do."

"So, we'll interview Reid about it," Rossi says dismissively. "His memory will make him a great interview."

"You could just interview _both_ of us."

"Prentiss, if you don't want to write the book with me that's fine, just say so."

His tone is exasperated and she's not sure how much is just Rossi being gruff and how much is indicative that he's getting sick of her protests. "No, Rossi, no," she stumbles. "It's not that I don't want to. I do, I really do and I'm incredibly flattered you asked me."

"Then what's the problem?" He rubs his fingers on one of the napkins.

"I…" she starts, then stops, trying to gather the right words to express exactly how she feels, because, yes, she is extremely flattered but there are a host of other emotions mixed in there, too. She takes a deep breath and begins again. "I guess…I'm afraid."

Dave frowns, but it's a frown of concern not censure or disappointment. "Do you still have baggage from Liberty Ranch?"

"No…well, yes, but no…" Emily realizes how ridiculous she must sound when he snorts; she takes a breath and speaks slowly and rationally. "Maybe a little but no more I think than anyone would…I did the required sessions with the Bureau shrink. There are issues there but that's not what I'm afraid of."

"What are you afraid of, then?" Apparently without shame or regret, he pilfers the cracker she had just loaded with brie.

Releasing a gusty breath, she reaches for another cracker and keeps her attention focused on the act of adding the rich cheese to it. "I've never…I mean, other than narratives on paperwork reports, I've never written anything and certainly not a book."

"Prentiss." His voice holds an insistent pull and she looks up hesitantly. He raises an eyebrow speculatively. "So, you didn't have to write a thesis for your Masters?"

Emily rolls her eyes. "Of course, but that was school."

"Doesn't matter, it's still writing." He kicks his foot against hers. "Quit trying to talk me out of it."

"I'm not trying to talk you out of it," she replies defensively. "I just don't understand why you want anyone to help you at all. You do great on your own."

Rossi gives a one-sided shrug. "I want to write the book, but doing it on my own might take longer than I want to put into a project now that I'm out of retirement. And, frankly, I think it would be a better story with you helping to tell it."

"But Dave, this is…you… what if I really suck at it?" She swallows. "What if I embarrass myself? What if I let you down?"

"Not going to happen, Prentiss." His response is swift and sure, and she can't help the spread of warmth in her chest. "I wouldn't dream of asking anyone but you. Do you know why?"

Emily lets out a small nervous laugh. "I have no clue."

"Not because you were there and your actions saved a lot of lives - even though you were and they did - but because I not only know you can do this, I believe you'll be great at it. Besides, I can't think of anyone less likely to let me down."

The look he gives her is frank, sincere and warm, and she feels her cheeks heating and her heart begins to thud in her ears as the realization hits her full-force: she doesn't just have a crush on him, but she is, in actual fact, head over heels in love with David Rossi.

Her body is still sitting on a cloth under a tree in Battery Park in Charleston, South Carolina, where the Cooper and Ashley Rivers meet and flow into the Atlantic Ocean out beyond. But her mind is somewhere beyond the reach of any of it.

_Fuck._

It was bad enough when she thought she just had a little crush on him.

Now…

_Fuck._

She's considered him a friend since pretty early on, and after Matthew's death she'd begun to consider him a rare friend and one of her closest. But that didn't mean they suddenly started to hang out in their off time, well, until they started to hang out in their off time.

This has thrown her, far more than it should have, she thinks. She needs to get away, needs to think about this, needs to figure out how to get over this without humiliating herself, damaging their working relationship or losing his friendship. Instead, she's here with him in this setting that often veers into intimate (_Oh, God, they slept together in the same bed last night..._ ) until they can travel home, and she has just essentially agreed to spend all of her free time with him, working on a book, when they do return.

_Now? _she asks herself. _You couldn't have realized this an hour ago? Or better, three months from now? Fuck._

"Did I overload your compliment receipt quota again, Emily?" His voice, amused but threaded through with what seems to be a real query, brings her out of her head.

"No." She shakes her head, trying to clear the sudden fog, hoping her cheeks are not as red as she thinks they must be. "I…thank you. That's incredibly generous of you. I feel the same way about you."

The look he gives her as he steals her second cracker is unabashedly pleased.

Later, she remembers those moments with a startling clarity, but the remainder of their stay melts into a blur with just a few clear images...

Walking the Battery wall with Rossi beside her...

Laughing at the delightfully cheesy story told by the Ghost Tour Guide of Edgar Allen Poe and the Charleston girl who was supposed to be _Annabel Lee_...

Leaning against the rail of the boat on the way back from Fort Sumter the next day watching as the ocean breeze lifted strands of Rossi's hair and thinking about running her fingers through it...

Listening to him outline their book over seafood...

Staring at the ceiling of her room sternly telling herself not to go to his room, not even just for a night, no strings attached.

It is both a relief and a disappointment when the doctor clears her for travel on Friday. She'll have to see her doctor when she gets back, and she'll probably be out of work another week, plus be on desk duty for a while after that, but this small pocket of time away from Quantico and the job, just her and Dave, is over. Emily knows it will make things easier to have some distance, to not be having three meals a day with him, not walking for miles and talking late into the night, not joining in on Skype calls with Cheryl or watching as he has a loving conversation with "Nonna Angela" on Cheryl's computer, not knowing he's sleeping just a few feet away.

Still, she puts on a bright face and applauds JJ's skills when she manages to get them a flight into Dulles late on Friday night, but she finds herself looking wistfully around the suite when the bellman comes for their luggage.

"You okay?" Rossi looks at her quizzically. It's not the first time she's seen the look over the last couple of days. When she's working too hard at the compartmentalization she's so well known for, trying to shove everything about their interactions into boxes labeled either "coworker" or "friend", he'll give her the same look, the one that says he doesn't know what's going on in her head but he'd like nothing better than to figure it out and maybe give her Hell about it. Then, she makes herself stop trying so hard, just makes herself be where she is without thinking about getting over him or pushing him away.

"Yeah," she answers and realizes it's okay to let him know where she is, what she's feeling in this moment. "This is one of the nicest vacations I've ever had and I'm going to miss your two room Presidential suite." She tilts her head and smiles at him. "Thank you. For everything."

He gives her an answering smile. "I enjoyed it, too. Thank you."

Barking out a laugh, she shakes her head. "All of this...I didn't _do_ anything."

"You are a hard woman to convince," he grumbles. "Thank you for the company, I had a good time, too."

On the way to the airport she wonders if the way his words cause such a pleasant warmth in her chest shows on her face.

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:** FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** This fic is the wonderful **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan.

**smittywing** and **smacky30** rock. The end.

**WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH**

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She's forgotten what a pain it is to fly commercially; she's gotten so used to the jet. But Rossi goes through all the steps flawlessly, and she simply follows his lead; credentials out, checking their weapons, then checking their bags, ticket out, ID out, shoes off, carry on inspected, shoes on. It seems to her that the steps to get to their gate last longer than their flight, but maybe it's really her heart counting down to the end of this time being Emily and Dave and going back to being SSA Prentiss and SSA Rossi. All too soon, the screech of the rubber wheel hitting the runway lets her know that whatever fairytale she's been concocting for the past five days, it's time for it to end, lack of happily ever after notwithstanding. "No color changing dress either," she mutters to herself.

When Rossi turns and asks "What'd you say?" she just grins and shakes her head.

"Nothing." She reaches for the clasp of her seat belt when the plane's loudspeaker crackles and the captain thanks them for flying his airline and hopes they have a good time while visiting Washington, DC, and surrounding areas.

They deplane and Rossi goes to begin the paperwork to pick up their weapons from the security personnel in the baggage claim office while Emily goes to the baggage carousel to await their luggage.

Watching the monitors, waiting to see the baggage carousel number for their flight, Emily lets her mind wander. It seems a little unreal to her that this time a week ago she was sitting in a restaurant in Charleston trying to sell Morgan and Rossi on her plan to go to Chrysanthemum. It feels like a lifetime ago; in a way she supposes it was. It was before she almost died, before she woke up in a hospital room with Rossi asleep in the recliner beside her, before she woke up to the fact she's in love with him and probably has been for quite awhile. In a way she feels even more fragile than she did in the hospital. Tomorrow she'll wake up in her own bed and she'll feel a little more normal and she'll figure out how to move past this. And if she can't move past it, she at least needs to learn how to live with it.

"Emily?"

The slightly incredulous male voice brings her back to reality with a bit of a bump. Startled, she looks up and, with a sinking stomach, recognizes the owner of the voice. After her she moved back to DC froom Chicago, when she was working at the Hoover Building, before she landed at the BAU, a coworker had set her up with his brother. Emily hadn't been particularly eager for the set-up, but most of the friends she'd had before had either moved or moved on, and she supposed she had as well. And the ambassador's charity ball had been looming and Emily couldn't think of anything worse than showing up to the event alone. After she met Todd, she knew there were plenty of things that were worse.

_You're being unkind_ her mother's voice chides from inside her head, and Emily can't deny it. There's nothing wrong with Todd, per se. He's nice and nice looking, intelligent and articulate. There was just nothing that clicked for _her_. He evidently felt a multitude of clickings as flowers arrived and pleas for a second date wore her down. She was afraid she was being too picky but the second date had made it painfully obvious she was not attracted to him and he, well, he appeared to be thoroughly smitten with her, and determined not to take 'no' for an answer.

"Todd." Her smile feels stiff and hard. "Hi."

"It _is_ you," Todd Mayflower is smiling widely, looking very pleased. Emily, however, is cursing her luck and wondering if the Universe has put Todd in her path as a cautionary tale- _don't become Dave's Todd Mayflower_. "How lucky am I?" He leans in and kisses her cheek and Emily tries not to cringe at the contact; she'd forgotten that he kissed like a fish, but the touch of his lips on her cheek is too much of a reminder.

"Small world, you know?" It's not the brightest response, but her brain has short circuited with her fear that she's in for another two months of ignoring her cell phone and dreading every knock on her door. He's not dangerous, she's not afraid of him, he's just seen one too many romantic comedies and thinks persistence will make up for attraction. Looking him over quickly, she gathers any information that might be useful in shaking him. He's dressed in casual clothes with a briefcase and laptop satchel nearby. She's hugely disappointed not to see a wedding band on his hand. _Please have a girlfriend in the Ladies Room. Please._

"I was just thinking about you; that's what makes this so great. I feel like I just made myself some incredible luck!" He's standing way too close, he's far too enthusiastic and he's just too, too nice; she can't bring herself to be outright rude to him.

"Maybe you should go buy a lottery ticket?" She gives him her stiff smile again but he just laughs delightedly.

"Seeing you is better than winning the lottery in my book." The conveyors near where they're standing crank up and begin to move. He looks around."Emily, could I maybe talk you into having a drink with me?"

"Oh, I..." She edges toward the conveyor as an Army green duffle bag and a medium sized tapestry suitcase begin the serpentine circuit. Neither is hers or Dave's, but it feels good to move away from Todd. It would feel better, she's sure, if he didn't move with her.

"Look, I know I was too pushy the last time. Seriously, I've learned my lesson." He holds up the first three fingers of his right hand. "Scout's honor."

"Todd, I appreciate the-" Her sentence is cut off midway by the feel of an arm snaking around her waist, but her startled protest is silenced by the press of Rossi's lips on hers.

"Sorry that took so long, honey." With a smile, he rubs his thumb over her lower lip and it makes her heart _ache_. It's pretty clear he's read the situation accurately. Rossi realizes she's trying to escape Todd's company without overtly hurting his feelings, and he just picked up the same game they had played with Gail Cooley. But this _hurts_; the tender touch of his thumb against her mouth, a kiss in public, the casual endearment, the possessive way his arm rests around her waist as he eyes Todd Mayflower. Emily is suddenly and somewhat surprisingly, furious.

"David Rossi." He offers the hand that is not currently resting on Emily's hip. "You're a friend of Emily's?"

"Todd Mayflower." Emily can see that Todd is trying to regain his footing, surprise and a trace of hurt touching his features.

_I feel the same way, Todd_.

"I was just trying to talk Emily into going for a drink." The younger man evidently isn't just persistent in the face of a reluctant date, but also in the face of the potential date's date. "Of course, if I'd known she was with someone I would have extended the invitation to both of you."

Rossi turns to her, with a look that is perfectly mingled surprise and reproof on his face. "Emily, you know the doctor said no alcohol."

"No, no," Todd interjects before Emily can retrieve her weapons case and the key in order to shoot David Rossi. "Obviously, I hadn't given her a chance to turn me down." He gives a nervous smile to both of them. "I didn't know. Well, it was good to see you, Emily. Take care and good luck with...everything."

Emily watches him move through the crowd before she disengages from Dave's arm to move forward and pick up her bag. Rossi moves to take it from her, but the look she gives him makes him take a step back from both the bag and her person.

They're silent as they gather the rest of their luggage and exit; it's when they're standing on the curb waiting for the car JJ had promised to send for them before he speaks. "Look, Prentiss, if I misjudged the situation, I'm sorry. If you wanted to go out with him, I'll track him down and apologize."

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. "You know you didn't read the situation wrong and you know I don't want to go out with him."

He turns to look at her and his expression is irritated. "Then what's your problem? The guy's gone; you didn't have to hurt his feelings to get rid of him. It's taken care of."

"I worked with his brother when I was downtown." She's been told in the past that she has a look so severe it could cut steel, learned, no doubt, on her mother's knee; it obviously needs to be sharpened, because Rossi appears entirely unmoved. "So don't be surprised when you start getting boxes of cigars from your Bureau cronies congratulating you on your impending fatherhood. And you get to explain it to Hotch." Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrows her eyes at him. "And Strauss."

Making a sound that is half snort, half laugh, Dave shakes his head. "First, the guy's not going to remember my name and second, the doctor did tell you no alcohol, it's not my fault the guy misunderstood why."

Wanting to rail at him about how kissing her _might_ have given "the guy" the wrong impression, she finds herself unable to say the words and she feels the ache in the center of her chest again. Something that should have meant so much to her treated so lightly by him, knowing the only kiss they were ever likely to share was meaningless to him, part of a joke, just demonstrates to her more clearly how deep she is and how badly she needs to get out.

His expression has shifted to something more wary than dark. "Prentiss...Emily." He's obviously choosing his next words carefully. "I wasn't trying to cause you any trouble." He shrugs and looks apologetic; somehow it makes him appear a little bit vulnerable. "I was trying to help you out."

There's a part of her that is still very pissed off and wants to scream at him that she does not need for him to rescue her. But her saner, calmer side remembers he doesn't know what's going on in her head and she must appear to be overreacting to the whole thing. Taking in a deep breath, she slowly releases it, trying to send all of the anger out of her body with it. Dropping her bag to the sidewalk, she rubs a hand over her face, long past worrying about keeping her make-up intact.

"Dave, I'm sorry." Once the words are out, she feels relief filling all the spaces the anger and anxiety had been moments before. It's not his fault she's in love with him; it's not fair to take it out on him. "I think I was just startled by seeing him and maybe," she concedes with a sidelong glance in his direction, "maybe a little tired."

Expecting immediate grief from him, either in the form of yelling at her for not telling him sooner or teasing that she's a lightweight, she's not prepared for the slight frown on his face or the way he reaches out to push her hair behind her ear. "Yeah." He nods, but he still looks a little uncertain. "It's been a long day. Commercial travel always seems to take so much more out of me." The smile he gives her is gently teasing, "Besides, you didn't get your nap today."

Last week's Emily would poke him in the ribs or smack his arm, but this week's Emily just wants to put her head on his shoulder and have a good cry. But twice in one week is far more than she's willing to allow herself, so she just shakes her head at him and smiles a little. "I am pretty useless without it."

The blare of a car horn draws her attention from his face and she grins widely. While she had been expecting a department issue SUV or sedan to roll up to the curb, the very welcome sight of Penelope Garcia in her Cadillac convertible is far, far better. "My darlings! My babies! Home at last!"

"Nobody said we'd get the good chauffeur," Rossi says as Garcia waves a gauzy scarf in their direction.

The trunk pops open and Garcia exits the car. "Only the best for the best, SSA Rossi. And by SS I mean Super Special, Super Spectacular and Super Sexy."

Rossi, grinning and shaking his head, starts putting their bags in the cavernous trunk. Emily, in the meantime is waiting for Garcia's hug, instead, Penelope reaches up and cups her hands on either side of Emily's face. "And you, Miss Thing, you are never to scare me in such a manner as this again or you will have to learn how to catch serial killers from the lair of the Empress of the Universe, the bunker of the Goddess of Knowledge, the tech room fifty feet from the BAU bullpen, because, my brown-eyed beauty, if you _ever_ scare me like that again, I am _never_ letting you out of my sight again. And trust me, when me and that man o' mine need some quality time to play Princess Leia and Han Solo or Spock and Uhura or Apollo and Starbuck, you're going to get pretty uncomfortable." Emily sees the fine tremble of her red painted lips and the serious look in her eyes.

It's easy for Emily to look at her life, no husband, no children, distant parents, and think she has no one until she is reminded how much this team means to her. And how much she means to them. "I understand, and I will not confound the will of the Goddess."

"Better not," Penelope sniffs, then hugs her tight. "I don't like being scared," she whispers against Emily's hair.

"Me neither," Emily whispers back.

When they break from the hug, Emily sees Rossi has opened the passenger door, whether in preparation to climb into the back himself or for her she doesn't know. But, he not only submits to a hug from Garcia, when Emily sees Garcia whisper something to him, he smiles over Garcia's shoulder and hugs back. Emily smiles as she climbs into the backseat.

Rossi lets go of Garcia and frowns. "Emily, I'll ride in the back."

Sighing, Emily looks heavenward. "I promise not to let the wind blow me out of the backseat when you're not looking, Dave."

Resuming her seat behind the wheel, Garcia laughs. "You say that now but you've never been in the back with me behind the wheel."

Looking mildly alarmed, Rossi fastens his seat belt as Garcia checks her mirrors and pulls out. "Please keep in mind our girl here is recovering from respiratory arrest."

"Oh, Super Sexy Spectacular Special Agent Rossi." She winks at Emily in the rearview mirror. "I believe life is all about the breathtaking moments but that's the wrong way to take the girl's breath away."

"Tell me about it," Rossi says with some feeling. "Emily was just admitting she was tired before you pulled up and I-"

"Then we'll just have to wake her up," Garcia interrupts as she presses the accelerator with heavy, steady pressure and merges into traffic at some speed. It's late enough that there's not a lot of traffic, comparatively, anyway. It's not like the roads are deserted, but there is enough room for the large car to gain some speed.

The sudden burst of wind as the convertible accelerates causes Emily to laugh aloud as her hair is lifted off her shoulders, strands whipping across her face. Rossi turns to look at her, concern etched over his features, but Emily reaches forward and touches his shoulder. "Relax, Dave. I'm fine." She's practically shouting over the wind, but she knows he gets the message when his face relaxes a little and he shakes his head at her as if she were a naughty child.

He spends the rest of the ride with his body angled towards the backseat as much as the seat belt will allow, and the three of them have a semi-shouted conversation while shooting down the interstate towards Quantico. Garcia offers to take each of them home, but they both agree it would be best to go back to the office to pick up their cars.

Rossi is on Level 2 and Emily is on Level 4, so Penelope lets him out first. He rummages around in his bags before pulling his head out of the trunk and hands Garcia the tissue wrapped shawl as Emily climbs into the front seat, while finger combing her hair."What's this, O Revered Rossi?"

"Something from Emily and me." When Emily makes a noise like she might protest he gives her a quelling look. "You can open it when you get home."

"I'll do nothing of the sort!" Garcia's chest heaves in indignation, and her cleavage rises like the tide. Emily can't help but think Dave is getting an eyeful, whether he meant to or not. "I will open it right now." Evidently, for the opening of presents, one must be standing, so Garcia climbs out of the car, and, with careful hands, unwraps the bundle.

The sound Garcia makes bounces off the concrete and asphalt surfaces of the parking garage, and Emily is pretty sure there are dogs in Arlington covering their ears and thinking the canine equivalent of _What the fuck was that?_.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!" While Penelope is never at a loss for words, it's fairly clear from her body language that her response is genuine and sincere. "I have never seen anything so...Oh my God! It's like you found part of my soul and returned it to me and I didn't even know it was missing, but now, _now_, I am complete."

Emily is not sure Rossi is prepared for the full force of the love of Penelope Garcia when she hurls herself into his arms and kisses both of his cheeks. It is a delight to see Garcia so overwhelmed and Rossi so thoroughly nonplussed.

The two perfect lipstick prints on Rossi's face are a bonus that has Emily reaching for her cell phone to take a picture; sadly, before she can get it ready, Garcia is swiping her thumbs across Rossi's cheeks, still babbling at him about the utter perfection of her shawl. "Did you have it custom made? Because it looks like it was custom made for me."

Rossi, looking very much as if he's just not sure where to put his hands, is wearing an expression that is half pleased and about a quarter alarmed, replies, "Emily found it and we both decided it was exactly right for the Goddess of All Knowledge."

Emily slaps a hand over her mouth at the sudden laughter that erupts from her at Rossi's unexpected uses of one of Garcia's self-proclaimed titles. Garcia gives her a dangerous look over her shoulder then turns back to Rossi. "It is, in all honesty, with complete sincerity, and absolutely no exaggeration, the most wonderful gift I have received in my adult life. I will wear it with both glee and pride." She leans forward and places a soft kiss on his left cheek. "Thank you."

It's hard to tell in the muted light of the parking garage but Emily is fairly sure Rossi is blushing a little. She is beyond pleased with Garcia's reaction; she's thinking about Grant and the work and love that went into the shawl and how he knew that somewhere in the world there was a person that would love that particular piece.

Anything after that reaction would feel anti-climactic, Emily is sure, but she still can't quite keep the disappointment from spreading through her chest when Rossi puts his luggage in his truck and says a quiet, "Goodnight," to both of them and adds an admonition for Emily to get some rest. Garcia waits to make sure his truck starts and he lifts his hand when the engine roars to life. She feels oddly bereft as Garcia angles the car up to the level where her Prius is parked. It's not that she expected some grand, sweeping declaration of feelings, but after everything over the past week, she just hadn't expected him to slip away so quietly. After days of knowing she would see him again in just a few minutes, she realizes that by not knowing when she's going back to work, she isn't quite sure when she'll see him again.

"Okay, Princess." Garcia slides the Cadillac into the parking space beside the Prius and the contrast in size and shape of the two vehicles makes Emily wonder if her car would fit in the trunk of Garcia's. "Spill."

"What?" Emily shifts mental gears from cars to her friend.

"You have three choices." Penelope raises a finger. "We can go up to my lair." She raises a second finger and rubs it against the first. "We can go get a bite to eat." The third finger is raised with a flourish of her hand. "Or we can sit here. Your choice about where we're talking but not what we're talking about."

Emily tamps down on a slight case of sudden panic and blinks at her friend. "Pen, what are _you_ talking about?"

Garcia rolls her eyes in such a dramatic fashion Emily can't help the small giggle/snort that escapes. She wonders how Penelope would feel about being compared to a teenager. She'd probably consider it a compliment.

"Listen." A finely manicured finger points in Prentiss's direction. "I may not be a professional profiler but I am a lifelong _girl_, and a damned good one."

"You are the best at everything you do." Wearily leaning her head back against the leather headrest, Emily realizes the fight she has left is minimal.

"Flattery, no matter how well-placed or true it is, will not divert me from my chosen mission." An eyebrow goes up. "What's up with you and Rossi?"

Emily shrugs. "Nothing." While technically true, it feels like a lie and a betrayal.

Garcia makes a disgusted noise. "Please. I did not hear a single Rossi or Prentiss; it was all Dave and Emily."

Emily tilts her head to look at the technical analyst. "We call each other by our first names all the time."

"Not quite so consistently." She shakes her head. "That doesn't even cover all the little touches or him putting your hair behind your ear when I was about six spaces down in line and you hadn't seen me yet."

"I don't know." Emily spreads her hands in a helpless gesture. "We just spent a few days almost exclusively in each other's company. He was worried about me, and felt like he needed to take care of me." She shrugs again, trying for nonchalant. "Personal space boundaries are bound to blur a little."

Garcia snorts. "Yeah, try it on someone who didn't see the way he looked at you, like he wanted to wrap you up, tuck you in a pocket and take you home."

Emily knows the look she gives her friend is too hopeful to not give her away, despite her words. "He's just in overprotective Rossi mode. You've seen him do it before."

Shaking her head, Penelope fans her fingers over the steering wheel. "Not like this." She directs a frank and assessing look at Emily. "He is one smitten kitten." The sidelong glance is at best sly, and at worst, well, Emily doesn't really want to contemplate what Garcia's worst could possibly be. "Did you sleep together?"

Emily's head snaps toward Garcia. "What? No! Why would you think that?"

Garcia shrugs. "You're all angsty and emo, and he's looking at you like he's afraid you're going to disappear or something." She taps her nails against the wheel. "It makes sense; if you fell into bed together one night, and then you had to deal with the reality of sleeping with a team member when you woke up the next day, _you_ would get all weird and awkward. But he'd just moon over you, wanting to get you back between the sheets."

Aware her mouth is half-open in astonishment; Emily blinks at the tech several times before closing her mouth and resting her head back against the seat. "You have entirely too much imagination to be a technical analyst."

"So, that's a no?"

Somewhere above them, Emily hears an engine start and wonders why anyone would be working this late on a spring Friday if they didn't have to. She's tired, weary from the travel, wrung out from the emotional roller coaster of the last week. "That might be why I said 'no' to begin with, because the answer is no. No, Rossi and I did not sleep together."

"Rats." Penelope does look very disappointed, and Emily is at least heartened that someone is in her corner, even though it doesn't make a difference to the whole conversation.

"Tell me about it."

Leaning forward slightly, Garcia lowers her voice to a conspiratorial level. "But you wanted to, didn't you?"

Giving a slow, sad laugh, Emily shakes her head and answers far more honestly than she probably should. "Yeah. A lot."

"I thought so." Penelope leans back against her own seat, turning her head towards Emily. "I don't get it. If you want him, and he obviously wants you, what's the problem?"

The flash of brake lights catches her eye in the Cadillac's rearview as the car from the upper level passes behind them and the slight after burn of exhaust reaches her nose. "First, I think you're mistaking lingering concern for something more."

Vehemently, Garcia shakes her head. "No. No, he's always had this look when it comes to you...like...like before he saw you he was done with romance but if he had a chance with you he'd sweep you off your feet and keep you swept off of them." Somehow her voice is both dreamy and excited at the same time; she's like a child telling a particularly enchanting fairy tale. "Like if he got the chance he'd dance cheek to cheek with you in the rain or line the way to the boudoir with rose petals or take you on a romantic picnic or something."

It would not be out of the realm of possibility for Garcia to have hacked the hotel's billing system and seen the picnic charge. But Emily doesn't really want to know, because if Garcia really thought of that on her own, then Emily really will have to reconsider her definition of romance.

"Second," she continues, not acknowledging Garcia's just-a-little-too-close-to-home analysis, "if, and I think it's a damn big if, if he had any interest he wouldn't act on it anyway because of the team dynamic."

"If he knew you were interested too, he might." It's almost painful how earnest Garcia is about this.

Emily shakes her head. "Third, we're friends. If...you know how this job is. If we fucked around and messed it up, that would mean both of us losing support."

"But...what if it didn't get messed up? What if it gave you both something more?" She reached out and clasped Emily's forearm, the bright red of her nails a vivid contrast against Emily's pale skin. Their eyes meet and Penelope's voice lowers and softens, her eyes are bright and hold a world of hope. "Why do you have to assume it would fail? What would it be if it didn't fail? Pretty amazing."

It's too much for Emily. Blinking against the moisture in her eyes, she captures Garcia's hand in hers, but turns her gaze away. They are both silent for a bit, both of them staring out the windshield at the rough concrete wall in front of them.

"You need a drink," Penelope announces after a bit.

Emily releases an audible breath. "The doctor said no alcohol."

A finely shaped eyebrow says more clearly than words what Emily is thinking. _Boy, does your doctor suck._ "How about ice cream? I have some Chubby Hubby and Turtle Tracks in the freezer at home."

Giving her friend a gentle smile, Emily shakes her head. "PG, I appreciate the offer, but I think my best course of action is going to be to go home and go to bed. I'll wake up tomorrow and start getting over it."

Garcia gives her a speculative look, but doesn't argue. Instead she helps Emily move her luggage from the trunk of the Cadillac to the backseat of the Prius.

"Thanks." Emily puts a hand on Garcia's arm. "I appreciate it."

"Just a couple of bags." She waves airily.

"No." Emily shakes her head. "Thanks for the more important stuff, like being my friend and listening and keeping me from hopelessness."

"Well, thank you for coming back in one piece, even if you are a little worse for wear."

The hug they share lasts a little longer and is probably a lot tighter than usual.

It feels good to walk through her own door, though it does feel too quiet, too still and just a little bit sad.

"I'm just a little sad," she says aloud to the room. "It doesn't mean anything." Then she wonders if she's gotten so used to the sound of Rossi's voice during her waking hours that she feels the need to fill in the silence. She shakes her head at herself and goes to inspect the mail. She finds it on the kitchen island where Sheila always leaves it along with a rather large box. The address label is a mix of printing, her address in Rossi's careful hand, and the nearly illegible scrawl of a return address. The only thing Emily can discern is "Charleston, SC" as the city and state. Pulling a knife out of the rack, she quickly slits the tape along the edges and the main seam then opens the box.

"I should have known."

Carefully, she lifts the basket from its nest of newspaper and excelsior packaging. There's no note, but of course there doesn't have to be. She sets it gently on the countertop and stares at it. A lot of the baskets had appeared to be similar in style but she would have been willing to bet that this was the same basket she and Rossi had watched the woman at the market craft.

Her phone beeps and she opens it to a text from Rossi, D. _Home safe?_

She looks at the text, then back at the basket and she thinks about Garcia's absolute certainty that Dave is smitten with her. Then she considers all the reasons it's a bad idea even if he is interested. Shaking her head, she presses his number on speed dial.

He answers on the first ring. "Hey."

"Hey," she responds then pauses for a few seconds. "Thank you for the basket."

"It got there already?" He sounds mildly surprised.

"It was waiting with the rest of my mail." She bites her lip and touches the basket with just her fingertips. "It's beautiful. This is what you were doing when you snuck off at the market?"

"I did not sneak off anywhere, at any time." He sounds indignant. "I bought it and arranged for shipping while you were otherwise occupied at the market."

She smiles at his tone. "It's the one she was working on while we watched, isn't it?"

"The very one." The satisfied note in his voice is unmistakable. "I thought that would have more meaning." There's another pause as if he doubts the wisdom or appropriateness of what he just said.

"It's all about the experience," she supplies for him, just so he'll know she gets it.

"Exactly," he agrees and she tries to picture him in his house, talking to her on the phone. Is he stretched out on the sofa or in the large armchair beside it? She'd like to imagine him in bed, leaning against his pillows, but he hasn't had enough time to get that relaxed; she's learned enough about him to know he likes to unwind a little before he attempts to go to sleep.

"Why didn't you keep it? It was your experience, too." She picks up a few stray pieces of the brown packing material, then drops them back in the box..

"Because I wanted you to have it." There are a lot of tones within that sentence but none of them clearer than _this is the way it is and if you want to argue about it you are going to piss me off_.

At this point, with so many other things unclear, what she is clear about is that he is her friend and she doesn't want to argue with him or piss him off, at least not tonight. "Well, thank you. It's gorgeous. I'll think of you every time I look at it." Cringing, she shakes her head at herself; she should have said their time in Charleston or the market or the experience.

"Good." He actually sounds pleased. At least if he thought she should have said something different, he doesn't mind what she did say. "Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come over tomorrow afternoon. We could hammer out the details on the book."

Surprised, she blinks rapidly at her phone for a beat, then speaks, "Dave..."

"Don't feel like you have to, Emily." He sounds neutral, like he really isn't invested either way. "If you want to rest or if you have other plans, I understand. I just thought I'd throw it out there."

"No, no." It's probably not a good idea, but she wants to go anyway. "I think that would be great."

"Good." There's a pause and she realizes she's smiling as she waits for him to speak again. "I have some errands to run in the morning and I should probably turn myself in to the sadist that is my trainer...how about around four? Does that work for you?"

She needs to do some laundry and check in with her mother. Plus she really should call Garcia to squeal and ask what she thinks it means and if she, Garcia, thinks she, Emily, has lost her mind, so four o'clock works out well. "Perfect," she declares.

"Good," he responds. "I'll see you then."

"Great." She just stops herself from giggling. "Goodnight, Dave."

"Sweet dreams, Emily."

Saturday morning passes relatively quickly and includes a rather stern lecture from the ambassador about informing her team members that, in future, should she be _in a coma_ a courtesy call to her mother might be in order. The ambassador seems to be on the verge of calling Hotch and chewing on him awhile. Only telling her mother that Hotch has been specifically told _not_ to call until he has been told by a medical professional it would be best to inform next of kin keeps the ambassador from locating his number in her contacts list.. Which leads to an argument about when Elizabeth would like to be called versus when Emily thinks she should be called. "It doesn't do anyone any good for you to be half a world away worrying about me when there's nothing you can do." She tosses the few towels into a pile; not being home does mean there are fewer linens to be done. She contemplates changing the sheets, then discards the notion; she had changed the sheets the night before Dave's niece's wedding. While that was two weeks ago and felt more like a lifetime, she had only slept on them twice.

Ambassador Prentiss laughs. "I worry about you no matter where in the world I am and trust me Emily, I've known for quite awhile there's nothing I can do." Her sigh transmits itself the thousands of miles between mother and daughter. "I know it probably seems silly to you, darling, but I would like to know if you're seriously injured."

Emily heaves a sigh of her own, dark items going in the laundry basket, light items in the hamper. "I'm not comfortable with you knowing about every bump and bruise, but I will talk to Hotch about calling you if anything happens that requires more than one night in the hospital. How's that?"

The smile in her mother's voice is quite apparent. "A compromise worthy of a diplomat."

"God forbid," slips out and only the dirty socks she's holding keeps Emily from clapping a hand over her mouth.

The ambassador must be having a good day because she surprises her daughter with a laugh. "Well, let's just say we're both in the careers we're supposed to be in." There's barely time for Emily to digest the remark when her mother asks, "How is Agent Rossi?"

She's always suspected her mother was far better at reading her than she should be. "Fine. Dave's fine." Briefly, she debates telling Elizabeth he had stayed with her in Charleston, then decides against it. "He said you sent him a case of Johnny Walker Blue."

Her mother makes a sound that Emily is unsure of; it could be surprise or it could be satisfaction. "That was weeks ago."

"Well." She debates throwing her white socks in with the towels but decides against it ."He just told me about it a few days ago."

"It was just a way to say thank you." Emily hears someone else's voice, then the voice fades out and she imagines one of her mother's assistants passing through her office on their own cell phone. "Considering everything he did that night, it was a relatively small token."

"Hmm. Well, he was appreciative." Grabbing her go bag, she unzips it to begin sorting her dirty laundry within. "And I...well, I appreciate you being so nice to him."

"Emily." The ambassador almost sounds hesitant. "I realize it is really none of my business, but I do hope, as your mother, I am allowed a little license in this area?"

"Exactly what area are we talking about, Mother?" Emily digs her black and navy socks along with her red t-shirt and pajama pants out of the bag.

"You and Agent Rossi appear to be spending quite a bit of time together." Elizabeth clears her throat lightly. "Are you absolutely sure it's only friendship?"

Emily thinks she must really, really suck at love _and_ self awareness if her mother picked up on the fact that Emily was in love with Dave a month before Emily herself did. But she is in no way brave enough to pursue this conversation. Knowing silence is just as good as an admission, Emily still hesitates, trying to think of a way to frame it that is both honest and doesn't open her up for more questioning. She decides, instead, to go for confounding the enemy. "I'm not sure I get what you're driving at. We're friends and coworkers, of course. What else do you mean?"

The ambassador pauses and Emily waits to see whether she's going to pursue the matter or live to fight another day. After a moment her mother gives a slight hum and Emily has the sinking feeling she just gave away far more than she protected. "Nothing, dear." She hears the rustle of papers. "I just want you to be happy."

"Thank you, Mother. I want that, too. Actually, I want it for you, as well."

"I am happy, and will remain so as long as Agent Hotchner remembers to phone me the next time you're hospitalized."

Emily laughs; parts of this conversation have felt a little as though she were having a conversation with someone else's mother, but now she's sure it's her own. "For more than a night. Compromise, remember, Ambassador Prentiss?"

"I remember, Emily Amanda Prentiss." Her tone of voice is clearly affectionate and Emily smiles. "Now, sadly, I have to go, I have an engagement. I love you, darling. Stay safe."

"I will. I love you, too, Mother."

After they disconnect, Emily holds onto her phone for a while thinking about her mother and Dave and the way relationships change.

After she puts in her load of dark laundry, she calls Garcia who squeals appropriately at both the book collaboration and the invitation over to his house to work on it. "I am telling you, he's smitten."

"And I am telling you you've breathed too many soldering fumes," Emily says in her best good-mood-dampening voice. "He's not interested." She opens her refrigerator, looking for something to eat. There's some leftover Chinese that needs to be taken straight to the dumpster, various condiments, yogurt of questionable freshness, two bottles of Riesling and some gigantic Spanish olives.

"Which is totally why you're on the phone with me telling me about it," Garcia retorts dryly.

Emily sighs and closes the refrigerator. "Okay, fine. Maybe he's interested, but he's not going to do anything about it. He's not going to risk the team dynamic or screwing up our friendship. And that's not smitten."

"Okay, so maybe he's not smitten, yet." She gives a very Garcia giggle. "You need to smite him."

A laugh bursts from Emily. "I'm pretty sure that's not the way that verb works."

"If you don't think he's smitten, which, just for the record, I am still convinced he is, then you need to smite him...with lust." The clacking of keyboard keys clearly conveys through the connection. "If you're willing to admit he might be interested, you need to change interested into smitten. What are you wearing?"

Emily laughs.

She's standing on Rossi's front porch at promptly four o'clock, but it's a near thing.

Garcia declared, after a barrage of cellphone pictures, that since Emily refused to show up at Rossi's house in a skirt and heels, they needed to go shopping, pronto, to get Emily something "seduction casual." At that point Emily remembered why she seldom shared her few romantic hopes and dreams with girlfriends. "Garcia. No. I can't show up in _seduction_ anything. What if... I can't throw myself at him." Her voice turned pleading. "I can't embarrass myself."

That finally seemed to get through, and a reasonably low slung pair of jeans that did nice things for her ass were declared "not too bad" by the Goddess. Then a red camisole top with a sheer red overblouse was decided on. By the time Garcia had given specific instructions about makeup and shoes, Emily was hard pressed to get ready and arrive on time.

One of Rossi's pet peeves is punctuality, and potential relationship or no, she doesn't want to start off on the wrong foot with their partnership on this book.

"Hey." He smiles when he opens the door and her heart does a ridiculous little flip and she hates herself a little for just how head over heels she is. He takes her laptop bag and ushers her into the den. "I usually write in the office but I thought we could talk some things out in here before we get started."

Surreptitiously wiping her sweaty palms on her jeans, she nods. She sort of wants to roll her eyes at herself for being nervous. It's Rossi. They see each other almost every day. They are, at the heart of it, friends; whatever else has developed, at least on her part, that hasn't changed. Taking a deep breath, she switches into a professional mindset, thinking about Benjamin Cyrus and Liberty Ranch and shutting everything else away.

They talk about the structure of the book for over three hours, Dave in his arm chair with a legal pad and a pen, sipping a beer, Emily curled into the corner of the sofa with a spiral bound notebook and a water bottle, until her stomach growls so loudly he raises an eyebrow. "I guess that's my cue to feed you?"

Her cheeks are on fire but she's laughing, too. "No, Dave, you don't have to."

"I don't know, it sort of sounds like your stomach is just on the verge of digesting itself." He stands. "Come on; let's see what's for dinner."

Not surprisingly, his kitchen is better stocked and better equipped than hers. While considering their options, Emily's stomach gives another embarrassing growl and she's kind of unsure if she wants to disappear or smack him for laughing at her. "I think fast is becoming the most important component here, Emily." Reaching up into the cabinet he pulls down a box of whole wheat pancake mix and shakes it at her. "How about breakfast for dinner?"

He's had enough meals with her on the road to know that while she hardly ever eats them in the mornings, she has a real weakness for eggs, bacon and pancakes at night. She raises an eyebrow to acknowledge the fact that he owns her at this moment and he grins.

At first he tries to relegate her to a stool at the breakfast bar, but she has recovered enough of her energy physically and her equilibrium emotionally to not give ground until he allows her to help. Scrambling the eggs and warming the plates are easy enough in anybody's kitchen and she watches as he doctors the pancake mix by adding vanilla and nuts to the batter. The bacon is microwave which she thinks is just as good as pan fried, but he disagrees; it is not so much worse as to be worth the mess of pan fried, he allows. In less than thirty minutes they're sitting at the small table in the breakfast room, debating pancakes versus waffles.

After they clean the kitchen, he says they should probably move to the office. She's expecting him to lead her to a room further down the hall; instead he leads her up the stairs, talking about writing on a desktop instead of the laptop. "There's something about the keyboard on the desktop that makes writing easier than the laptop." He turns at the top of the stairs and enters the first door while Emily tries to take in the details of the decor around her.

The halls are a deep blue, not quite navy, with crisp white trim and gleaming hardwood floors. The office has muted red walls broken up by a large mahogany desk, matching bookcases, several wooden filing cabinets and a leather sofa against one wall. It has the same polished hardwoods as the hall, only with a plush area rug that pulls the blue from the hall and the red from the walls. Emily has stopped listening to him and turns in a circle taking it all in: framed certificates and family photos dot the tops of the bookshelves and the books are neatly arranged with the overflow in several stacks beside the desk.

"Wow," she breathes.

"What? You thought the walls would be beige?" His tone is dry and a little challenging, but she just shakes her head.

"This is...I've dreamed about having a room like this." Her grandfather had taken the major living space of his home and made it a library and while she had loved all of the books she had always wished for a smaller, out of the way space to curl up and read without fear of being disturbed.

He tilts his head. "There's a bedroom on the first floor I could have used for an office, but I needed to keep it a bedroom for when Mama comes to visit. She's at the age where the fewer stairs the better." He points to a door on the opposite wall. "It connects to the master bedroom; it was probably originally built as a nursery but it works fine as an office. Sometimes when I can't sleep it's nice to be able to get up and do a little work or read and not worry about lighting the whole house up."

Just then the computer dings. He checks his watch and smiles. "Speaking of Mama."

The conversation begins with Cheryl talking to Rossi, then demanding to know where Emily is. Dave calls her a brat and then pulls Emily into view of the monitor. "Emily! I was worried I wouldn't get to talk to you as much now that you're both home."

Emily smiles. "You can always call me, you know."

"I know but seeing you both at the same time is more fun," the teenager grins. "It gives you the opportunity to talk about how great I am as soon as we hang up instead of having to wait."

Dave barks out a laugh and Emily snorts. "I never knew ego was genetic, as well."

"It isn't ego if it's true, is it, Uncle Dave?" The cheeky grin is _definitely_ genetic.

Her thought is proven as Dave gives the same grin. "You got it, kiddo."

"Love you, Uncle Dave. Kisses, Emily. Here's Nonna Angela." The angle of the computer changes and the sweetly smiling face of Angela Rossi fills the screen.

"Davey! You have Emily with you! Are you all better, Emily?" She claps her wrinkled hands in delight.

"Hello, Mrs. Rossi," Emily says nervously. "Yes, I'm doing great, thanks. How are you?"

Angela waves a careless hand. "Well, you know, dear, at my age, any day on this side of the grass is a good one."

Emily laughs and Rossi smiles. "You've been using that same line for twenty years, Ma."

"It's been true for twenty years," she dismisses her son. "Now, tell me more about Charleston! How was Fort Sumter?"

Angela and Dave chat for a little while and Emily slides away to study the titles of the volumes on Rossi's bookshelves. She tries not to eavesdrop, but she doesn't want to wander around Rossi's house, invading his personal space in an attempt to give him privacy. Angela calls her back to the screen to bid her goodnight and admonishes her son to take care of himself.

"Thank you for being patient through that." He taps a pen against the blotter on his desk. "I try to talk to both of them as much as I can when we're not on a case."

"Please. All the things we see? All the screwed up families?" She shakes her head. "It's really amazing to see a normal, loving family interact."

His smile is gentle. "I'm a lucky man."

Emily taps his knee with her notebook. "They're lucky, too, you know."

He just shakes his head, but he's still smiling as they start to work.

They work until nearly midnight and by the time she leaves they have decided on the course for the introduction and have an outline for the rest of the book. Sunday is a repeat of Saturday, only with much less anxiety on Emily's part, and the family computer call is only Cheryl since Rosalie has taken Angela to evening Mass.

Monday, Dave is back at work and Emily has an appointment with her primary physician, who says she can go back to work on the following Monday. She spends the rest of the day doing research and talks to Dave three times between the time he leaves the office and the time she goes to bed. Tuesday, he calls her in the morning to let her know they've drawn a case and the team's headed to Maine. "I'll try to call, but if I don't..." He leaves the sentence hanging, as if he doesn't know how to finish the thought.

Emily knows the drill, she knows how little time they have when they're working a case, she can't figure out why he sounds so stressed about it. "Don't worry about it, Dave. I'll keep my nose to the grindstone."

"Prentiss," he huffs at her, "we don't have a deadline for this, don't push yourself."

"Yeah, yeah, respiratory arrest, coma, blah, blah, blah." She reaches for a pile of papers. "I did tell you my doctor gave me a clean bill of health yesterday, right? Besides, I've got a line on Cyrus's mother before they came to Liberty Ranch the first time. I'll send you the information."

"Aren't you impressive?" The smile in his voice puts one on her face. She hears a voice in the background and Rossi says, "Coming." There's a small pause, then, "Em, I gotta go. Take care, okay?"

"You, too." It feels a little odd to know the team is off without her and she won't go to sleep tonight with Dave's voice in her head. "Stay safe."

They're gone for four nights but Dave still manages to e-mail her several times and call her at least once a day, ostensibly to talk about the book, but the case is child abductions and she hears the strain as he sketches out the facts of the case, feels his tension as he vents his frustration at the lack of evidence. Ultimately the unsusb turns out to be a beloved crossing guard at a local school. He was careful never to abduct any of his kids, but the close call for so many parents is horrifying and the devastation of the families of four dead little girls impacts the whole community.

The team comes home Saturday but Emily has plans to leave Dave alone. Kids are the worst, the ones they all need time and space to come down from, but he's on the phone with her Saturday afternoon asking if she wants pizza for dinner or if she would prefer to pick up Chinese on the way over. He makes lasagna for her on Sunday while they decide who to interview for the book and she speaks to Angela, Cheryl and Rosalie when they call. Rossi sends her home early, since Monday is her first day back, but she's content knowing she'll see him the next day. They spend a few nights during the week working together on the book and even when they're not in the same room, they're talking on the phone, by e-mail, on the computer.

They don't pull a case for three weeks and it makes them all nervous; it always seems the longer between cases, the nastier the reintroduction to the work is. And the case of a sexual sadist identified in the greater Baltimore area is no different. He's probably been killing for far longer than they're aware of and Reid is absolutely sure his geographic net has to be wider, but a consistent pattern has emerged in the last few weeks and the discovery of three horribly mutilated bodies in one day sends the team to Baltimore. It's not far from home, but just far enough that the drive cuts too much into their case time so they get a block of rooms at a decent hotel close to the police station. JJ makes the drive to go home to Henry every other day, but she isn't required to work the brutal hours the profilers do. Of course, she usually does anyway, but Hotch doesn't give her any grief about it and Emily is pretty sure he's taken a night or two to go home to tuck Jack in during the ten days they've been on the case.

It's eating them all up; there's no apparent cohesion in the victimology. The only consistency appears to be the brutality with which the women are raped and tortured before their murders. Rossi and Morgan spend Friday night going over the evidence in Morgan's room and when she wakes up Saturday morning they've hammered out a hunch. By noon they're asking for a warrant and by midnight they have Dr. Andrew Ryan, OB/Gyn in custody.

Morgan and Dave are on hour six of the interrogation somewhere around 7:30 in the morning. Hotch is observing with Emily, both of them making notes about phrasing, ticks and possible tells while Reid and JJ go over the boxes of journals and trophies as the techs bring them in from Ryan's basement.

"Look," Emily says. "Every time Morgan mentions his mother, he clenches his left fist."

Hotch watches carefully for the next mention and clench, then nods. "You're right. Good spot." He uses his head to indicate the interrogation room. "Want to pull them out?"

"Maybe we should wait another ten minutes, he looks a little-" She's interrupted by the ringing of her phone; checking the display, she frowns. It's not a number she recognizes, but she can't ignore it since they're on a case and she's given her number out to a dozen potential witnesses. Holding up a finger to indicate _just a second_ to Hotch, she answers. "Prentiss."

"Emily." The woman's voice is familiar but she can't place it right away. "I'm sorry to bother you. It's Rosalie; Cheryl gave me your number."

"Rosalie. Hi." There's not much that could be good about Dave's sister calling her at 7:30 on a Sunday morning. "Is Cheryl okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah. She's fine." But there is no mistaking the sadness in the woman's voice. "Is Davey with you? I've been trying his numbers and I can't get him anywhere. His cell is going straight to voice mail."

Emily feels dread knotting her stomach. "He's in...he's questioning a suspect." She's aware of Hotch's eyes on her as if he, too, can tell whoever Emily is speaking with is upset.

"Is there any way you can get him for me, Emily? I-" She pauses and takes a breath and Emily almost feels it. Rosalie's voice is not watery or wavering, there are no tears underlying her words. But there is a slow gravity, a sadness that is so accepting it is almost serene. "Mama died in her sleep last night."

Emily feels her heart clench. Automatically, she turns towards the observation window and looks at Dave. It must be coincidence, he's trying to appear unengaged by whatever story Ryan is cranking out, but it's almost as if he's looking straight into her eyes. "Oh, Rosalie, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you. I...she's usually the first one up, so I went to check on her right away -" Now Emily hears a slight waver. " -And she was gone."

"Oh, Rosalie." Her chest aches. She'd only met Angela Rossi in person once, but Emily's been part of several conversations with Dave and his mother via the computer and Emily knows how beloved Angela is, how much pain her death is going to bring on the large Rossi clan. And Dave. _Oh, Dave._ "I'll go get him." Hotch, not knowing what is going on, but surely able to guess it's not good news, has already moved toward the interrogation room door. "Can you hold on for just a minute?"

She sees Hotch open the door and lean in; his words are tinny through the sound system as he tells Rossi and Morgan, "You're needed out here." Rossi's face goes carefully blank, a look she's seen him use countless times. He uses it to mask confusion as well as get people to talk more than they normally would when he combines it with a careful silence and witnesses and suspects rush to change to look on his face and fill up the quiet with words..

"Yeah, of course." Rosalie answers her question; she's back to sounding serene. "I'm glad you're there with him, Emily."

Not thinking about implications or misunderstandings, Emily replies from her heart. "Me, too."

Rossi and Morgan both stand, leaving Ryan chained to the table, and exit the room. The first thing Rossi sees when he rounds the corner is her face and she has no hope of hiding that something is wrong. His expression changes from blank to wary, as he says, "Emily?"

She holds her phone out to him; she is peripherally aware of Hotch nodding Morgan toward the conference room. "It's Rosalie." Her teeth worry her bottom lip. "I'm so sorry, Dave."

He doesn't reach for the phone right away; instead, he keeps his gaze on her face. "Mama?"

Her throat is thick and burning, so, she simply nods and doesn't think twice about Hotch standing there when Rossi pulls her close to hug her as he takes the phone from her hand. "Rose? What happened?"

She's listening to his side of the conversation when Hotch catches her eye and inclines his head; his face is more somber than usual, but there's something else there, some thought working itself out behind his eyes. Nodding, she disengages from Rossi's arm and follows Hotch a few steps down the hall.

"His mother passed away?" He waits for her confirming nod. "He's been up for almost 48 hours straight. His family is in Philly now?" Again, she nods. "We can finish up here without the two of you; will you drive him?"

For the first time since she'd joined the BAU she doesn't think twice about the case or finishing her part in closing it. She just gives Hotch a sad smile and says, "Thanks."

"Prentiss," Hotch starts, then stops. By no one's definition is Hotch a talkative man; she is certain every word is considered and weighed carefully, but he's also not one to hesitate when he has something to say, so she watches with interest as he gathers his words. "Don't feel you have to hurry back to DC. It's..." He looks over where Rossi is still on the phone with his sister. "I know he's very close with his family, his mother in particular. Obviously, this is going to be hard on him." There's a downturn to his mouth and a dark, mournful look in his eyes and she knows he's thinking of his own loss, his own grief. "He forgets sometimes he has people he can lean on. Stay with him as long as you want to, as long as he needs you."

Really the last thing she wants to do here, on the job, in a police station in downtown Baltimore when Dave needs her, is to cry, but she feels her eyes stinging in reaction to Hotch's words and the idea that Hotch thinks enough of her to ask her to do this for Dave. He is protective of all of them, but he relies so heavily on Dave, it goes beyond teammate and friend. Emily knows it is no small honor that he trusts her this much. Not that it would matter, she'd still want to go, to be there for him, no matter what Hotch thought, but to have his blessing and encouragement makes her feel strong and capable and worthy.

"Hotch." She swallows the tears and as much of the emotion as possible. "Thank you."

He nods a little grimly. "We're due for step down, anyway. Take whatever time he needs. Let us know about any arrangements."

"I will," she says through stiff lips. Very briefly, it occurs to her that Rossi might not want her to stay. There's no way he's getting out of someone driving him if he wants to get there right away, but what if he just expects her to leave after she delivers him to Rosalie? The thought is too horrifying to contemplate; it causes the ache she's had in her chest since Rosalie told her Angela was dead to turn into a pinch. Shaking her head against the pain, she pushes the idea away. Despite her unvoiced feelings, at the bottom of everything, they're friends; he'll let her stay. He has to.

Emily watches as he hangs up the phone then runs an ever-so-slightly shaking hand through his hair, exhaustion and despair evident in the simple gesture. He looks up and into her eyes and she has to remind herself that a quick hug when he just found out his mother died is one thing, but throwing herself at him with Hotch and several police detectives looking on is another. Schooling herself, she approaches with Hotch.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Dave." Somewhat surprisingly, Hotch reaches out and pulls Rossi into a sympathetic embrace.

Rossi returns the hug with a gruff, "Thanks," and steps back, blinking furiously. "Could you finish this up?" He gestures towards the interrogation room.

"Of course. Prentiss will drive you." His tone is gentle but brooks no argument.

"Yeah. Yeah, that would be good. Rosalie said she should come." Dave seems a little lost, a lot stunned, "But we don't know anything, yet." He shakes his head. "I mean, I don't know when a...a service..." He stops, and takes in a shuddering breath, clearly unable to take in the enormity of it.

"Dave." Hotch looks pained, compassion and the desire to comfort clearly warring with the fact that they're on a case and not on their home turf. "Take as long as you need." He looks at Emily. "Both of you," he reiterates.

She nods and puts a hand on Dave's arm. "Where's your briefcase? We should get going."

He heads to the SUV while she goes to the conference room to round up his briefcase. While she stacks papers and places them back in the case, she gives JJ, Reid and Morgan the bare facts, which when she reflects on it, are all she has anyway. They all send their sympathy and she's actually glad he's already gone outside. While "fragile" and "Rossi" are not words she would often put in the same sentence, she isn't sure the sudden onslaught of so much sympathy when he is still absorbing the shock would do him much good.

Gratefully, she closes the briefcase and bids everyone a quick goodbye with promises to update them as soon as she knows something. Hurrying out to the SUV, she slows when she sees him slumped against the side, his body language telegraphing shock and pain as much as tiredness.

"Hey," she says softly, unsure of what else to say.

He raises his head and gives her a soft, sad smile. "It just occurred to me, I don't know why we're hurrying to get there. There's nothing we can do."

Making a noise that is half protest, half comfort, she reaches out and cups his shoulder. "You need to be with your family and your family needs to be with you."

He nods. "Yeah, I know. I just wonder about the way we always have a need to do something in the face of death. All the travel and the casseroles in the world don't make a difference." His eyes are dark and sad. "She's dead, Emily."

Emily wraps her arm around his neck, hugging him tightly, closing her eyes when she feels him hug back. "I'm so sorry, Dave." Her voice is husky, and she desperately wishes for more words, for different words. But he's right; there are no words that make the truth any different.

"Come on," she says softly. "We'll stop by the hotel and pick up our things then we'll hit the road."

He nods against her, his arms tighten, then release. "Thank you. I-" He clears his throat as he steps back. "I'm glad you're here."

Handing him his briefcase, she pushes the lock button and nods. "Me, too."

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:** Teen/FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** This fic is the wonderful **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan.

**smacky30** and **smittywing** are wonderful betas and amazing women. They have been cheerleaders and betas when they both had so many more important things happening in their lives. I can not ever thank them enough for everything they've done for me.

* * *

Emily gently suggests a nap on the way, but she knows he won't be able to sleep; she wouldn't be able to either. He's quiet, but it's not his usual quiet; it's heavy and sad. Of course it is, it couldn't be anything else, but it's still hard for her to see him in so much pain. In her time with the Bureau, particularly since joining the BAU, Emily has felt helpless plenty of times, but she's never been as overwhelmed by it as she is right now. So, when Dave starts talking she gives him as much attention as the road allows.

"My father died when I was just coming into adulthood. Well, I already had one marriage and divorce behind me and I had just mustered out of the Marines, but I was still just a kid." He's looking down at his hands. "Pancreatic cancer. It was a hard way to watch someone you love go." Twisting the heavy FBI ring on his finger, he bites the corner of his lip. "Mama sat with him the whole time; she only left him to go to church."

Half-smiling he shakes his head. "Towards the end she bullied one of the priests into coming to the house every day so she wouldn't have to leave his side. When things were getting bad they put Pop in a hospital bed; all the bedrooms were upstairs, so they moved the sofa out and put the hospital bed in the living room. Since there wasn't a sofa to sleep on, she slept on the floor." He shrugs. "We didn't figure it out until I got up early one morning and found her. We went out and bought her a cot."

There's a brief pause before he continues. "She wouldn't let any of us sit with him so she could go sleep; we were welcome...any of us, all of us, were welcome to sit with him, sometimes it was standing room only, but we weren't just sitting with Pop, we were sitting with _both_ of them." His chest heaves with a short, sad laugh.

He's quiet for a bit, then continues slowly. "He died there, in that hospital bed with her on the cot beside him. It was the middle of the night, closer to dawn than midnight and she laid him out. She washed his body and combed his hair and covered him up before she called any of us. Me and Gabriella and Teresa were all upstairs, Rosalie and Francesca were five minutes away, Sophia, ten. We would have helped her, we would have done anything she wanted but she did it all herself."

"When we saw, we asked her why and she said-" He swallows hard, chest and stomach moving along with his throat. "She said she was with him before any of us and it was her right to see him through to the end." His voice is rough with the tears he's fighting and she wonders why he just won't let go and cry. "The funeral home came to get him and she walked out of the house beside the stretcher; she watched them load him into the hearse and drive away then she went and sat in Rose's car. She never set foot back in that house; she said if he wasn't coming back there, neither was she."

He smoothes a hand over his trembling mouth and swallows again. "She used to say she didn't know who she was going to be more excited to see when her time came: Pop or Jesus. Then she'd say, 'I guess Jesus since I never had to mend His holey underwear.'"

Emily, half on the verge of tears herself, gasps out a laugh at the unexpected pun and Rossi gives her a feeble smile. "Mama wasn't afraid of a joke." His voice is proud and sad when he says, "She wasn't afraid of anything."

The traffic has picked up, the farther north they travel. Most of it is big rigs trying to eat up the miles without the annoyance of too many cars on a relatively quiet Sunday morning. In the middle of changing lanes, surrounded by large tractor-trailers, Emily doesn't dare take her eyes off the road. Blindly, she reaches out a hand, grateful when he grasps it, the squeeze of his fingers squeezing her heart.

It's mid-morning when they reach the outskirts of Philadelphia. Dave sits up a little straighter and gives her directions to the affluent suburban subdivision where Rosalie lives. It's a newer neighborhood, easily developed within the last ten years and Emily is mildly surprised; she had thought Rosalie's family would live in an older home, in an older neighborhood with old fences and older trees.

Dave directs Emily to park on the street in front of the walkway and they grab their go bags from the back. There are a couple of cars in the driveway but the brick two-story has an oddly quiet feel to it. Dave doesn't bother knocking; he simply turns the knob on the front door and pushes it open.

Emily is watching him carefully, looking for signs of breakdown, but he just looks _tired_ as he stands in the two-story foyer. "Hello?" he calls. "Anybody home?"

Immediately there's the sound of movement from upstairs, then Cheryl comes into view, flying down the stairs. Emily catches sight of a red nose and smeared mascara before the teenager throws her arms around Dave's neck.

Their embrace is wordless, but fierce, and for just a second Emily feels a little like she did the first time she'd seen these two hug, as if she doesn't really belong, as though she's an intruder. Then Cheryl reaches an arm out and looks at her. Emily takes a hesitant step forward and finds herself enfolded in the embrace between the teenager and Dave. It should be awkward, but oddly, it's not. One of her arms goes around Cheryl, the other across Dave's back and his arm and Cheryl's touch across her own back. It feels as though she is being welcomed into a communion of comfort, asked to give and receive as part of a shared grief.

The shared hug lasts only a moment before Cheryl steps back; she wipes shaking fingers under her eyes then places a kiss on Dave's cheek and one on Emily's. "Nonna and the aunts went to Mass. She said to tell you she wanted to tell Father Frank in person but they wouldn't make any plans without you." She reaches into the pocket of her jeans for a crumpled tissue and swipes at her nose. "Come on upstairs." They climb the stairs slowly with Cheryl in the lead. "Poppy, Uncle Tony and Uncle John went shopping. Nonna told everybody else to go to Mass and pray for Nonna Angela instead of coming over." The girl gives a little laugh. "She said she didn't want to be overrun by the hordes until after you got here."

Pushing open the second door in the hallway she reveals a room with a neatly made queen-sized four-post bed with a white eyelet duvet, sky blue walls and crisp white curtains. "You're in here. There're clean towels in the bathroom." She points to a door on the far side of the room. "You have to share a bathroom with me; just thank God you don't have to share one with Michael."

She slides her hands into her back pockets. "Nonna said you'd both been up all night and I should let you rest. But if you need anything I'm right next door." Giving a small jerky nod, she quits the room leaving Dave and Emily alone.

"Emily, I'm sorry." He sounds pained. "When Rosalie gets home I'll explain...I can take the sofa downstairs."

The inner debate is so short as to be almost non-existent. "Dave, don't be silly." She shakes her head and drops her bag. "We're adults; we've even shared a bed before." Sitting on the end of the bed she kicks off her shoes. "Your family has a lot more important things to think about than what in the Hell is going on with us. And you don't need to worry about having to explain."

His shoulders relax slightly. "You're really okay with that?" First, he moves his head from side to side and she winces at the sound his neck makes. Then he circles each shoulder and she sees him grimace.

"Yeah, I am." Scooting back until she's resting against the headboard, she tilts her head. "There is a condition, though."

"Oh?" He sounds wary as he hangs his jacket in the closet.

Looking at the dark circles under his eyes, she softens her voice. "I want you to try to rest until your sisters get back."

"Prentiss," he starts then softens. "Emily. I won't be able to sleep."

She shrugs and slides down against the pillows. "I said rest, I didn't say sleep."

He frowns at her but toes off his shoes anyway and climbs on the bed without further discussion.

"Turn around," she says lightly.

"What?" He sounds gruff and puzzled.

"Turn onto your side." She uses the tone of voice she's learned from him, the one that always seems to have an unspoken _dumbass_ at the end of it.

"Emily." His tone is little more than a warning growl.

"Quit being uncooperative," she warns, "or I will tell all five of your sisters that you have not only been up all night one night, you have been up all night _two_ nights."

The look he gives her is just shy of murderous but she just gives him a soft smile and he turns onto his side. Even over his shirt she feels the muscles of his shoulders tense as she touches him. "Relax," she admonishes as she sets her hands to kneading the muscles. He hisses then groans as she presses into the knots.

"God, Emily. Where did you learn that?" His voice is low, practically a moan.

She hums as she sets to work on a muscle so tense it's bulging. "My neighbor in Chicago taught massage therapy and I took one of her classes." Smiling as she feels the knot diminish she continues conversationally, keeping her voice even and soft. "I didn't travel nearly as much then. Boring desk job. I was always looking for classes and things to do with my free time."

"What other classes did you take?" His voice is slow and deep; when she pushes slightly he rolls to his stomach easily.

"Hmmm." She bends over him, working her hands over his shoulders and upper back. "Pottery, upholstery, photography, couple of cooking classes."

"What'd you learn to cook?" His voice is slightly muffled by the pillow.

"Everything from boiled water to gourmet, Asian, French." Her fingers press into the muscles, "Bread; I took a baking class."

He raises his head from the pillow. "Why haven't you ever cooked for me?"

Pushing his head back down, she smiles. "You've been too busy asking me what I want to eat to ever let me cook."

"You could have volunteered," he grouses.

She just hums again and keeps kneading his muscles. He doesn't speak again and she keeps working on his muscles, concentrating on making even, soothing motions. When his breath evens out and she feels him relax under her hands she pauses a moment and rests her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Dave," she whispers against his shirt.

The only answer is a soft snore and she curls up beside him, careful not to touch, and closes her eyes.

The sound of a door slamming and distant voices downstairs brings her back to consciousness; when she opens her eyes it's to find Dave looking at her sleepily, a slightly confused look on his face.

"Hey," she says softly. "How're you doing?"

She sees the fog clear and memory return; the look on his face makes her want to cry.

He presses his fingers against his eyelids and rubs. "All things considered, I suppose I'm okay." Sliding up to a sitting position she passes a hand through her hair and watches as he checks his watch and grunts. "We slept about three hours." He swings his legs off the bed and sits for a minute with his back to her, perfectly still.

She waits until she can't wait any more, waits until the silence becomes palpable, bordering on painful, before she speaks. "Dave?"

He shakes his head. "I'm a writer; even though I write about real people and real events it still requires a certain amount of creativity." Turning his head over his shoulder he offers her a bleak look. "You'd think I could come up with something less clichéd than I was hoping it was a bad dream."

"I'm so sorry, Dave." Emily is so sick of those words already; she wants something better, grander, more meaningful to say. But there is nothing better or grander, nothing with any real meaning, leaving only "sorry" to express how much she aches for him, how awful she feels for his loss, how she'd do anything to stop him from hurting if only it were in her power. "Is there anything I can do?"

Shaking his head, he reaches across the mattress and places his large hand over hers. "Just being here with me..." He stops, seems to search for a way to continue the thought, but after a few seconds he just shakes his head again and squeezes her hand. "Thank you, Emily."

There's an image in her mind, a picture so clear resting right between her eyes, where she knee-walks across the mattress and wraps herself around him, her front to his back, folding her arms across his chest, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and holding him until he feels better simply through the sheer force of her love for him. Instead, she settles for turning her hand and twining her fingers with his. She can't help the roughness of her voice when she responds, "Thank you for letting me be here."

It would be nice to hole up in this bedroom holding hands, but they both know the world moves on and they're here to face the inevitability of that. Emily uses the bathroom and runs a brush through her hair, then sits on the edge of the bed and puts on her shoes while she waits for Dave to do the same. When they're both presentable, he hesitates for a minute then gives her a sad smile and motions for her to precede him out the door.

As they descend the stairs, the voices and varying conversations grow louder. The Rossi sisters are settled in Rosalie's living room; not surprisingly, they all have red eyes and red noses, but none of them are crying at the moment. From the tail end of the conversation, Emily gathers they are reminiscing about a childhood Christmas with their paternal grandmother visiting. Their mother wanted to create the perfect holiday, and each of them, in their own way, managed to accidentally wreak havoc with her plans. "Well," Francesca says, "except Dave. He was such a terror the rest of the time, how did he manage to be such an angel that week?"

"Self-preservation and a sense of priorities," the terror in question provides. "She had me convinced Santa would bring me a new bike if I managed to not show Nonna Rossi my true nature."

"There you are," Rosalie says, opening her arms. He bends, kisses her cheek and holds her in a hug for a few moments as they rock each other. When their embrace breaks, he moves to Teresa in the next chair and Rosalie holds her arms out to Emily, offering her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for coming, Emily."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Emily says into Rosalie's ear.

Rosalie draws back and lays a gentle hand on Emily's cheek. "Thank you, sweetie." She gives a sweet smile. "We can't help but be sad because we are just going to miss her so much, but really, she had a long and amazing life. We're really going to try to remember that instead of what we've lost."

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Emily replies just as gently. When she turns to track Dave's progress, she finds he's moved to Gabriella on the other side of Teresa and Sister Teresa is holding her arms out for Emily's embrace.

Emily follows Dave around the room, receiving hugs and offering condolences in return. All of his sisters are welcoming and none seem to question her presence with Dave; she feels like a terrible fraud.

"Ah, there's the missing member of Team In-Law." Rosalie's husband, Joe, appears in the doorway with several glasses and a couple of bottles of wine on a tray. He's a large man with steel gray hair and a rich voice; she had been introduced to Rosalie, Francesca, Sophia and Gabriella's husbands at the wedding but their contact had been brief.

"No," Dave says, shaking his head. "Letting her sit with my sisters is one thing, but putting her with you four? Hell no."

Joe sets the tray down and studiously ignores Dave as he starts pouring wine. "We've managed to fend off the other generations for today, Emily. We sent Cheryl and Michael out with their uncle and the obligatory grief casseroles haven't started arriving yet." He glances up and gives her a wink. "It'll just be Angela's six kids and us hangers on. We're making dinner for our lovely wives and thought you might want to join us in the kitchen if you want some _real_ dirt on little Davey Rossi here."

Again Rossi barks, "Hell no!" just as Emily answers Joe with, "That sounds good."

The sisters are laughing at Dave's dark look as Emily rises to follow Joe out of the room.

"Hey, Joey," Rosalie calls.

"Yeah?" He turns to look back at his wife.

"We like this one; she's a keeper." She raises her eyebrows at her husband in a look so reminiscent of Dave, Emily has to smile. "Don't do nothin' to scare her off."

Joe tucks the tray under his arm, clicks his heels together and gives a sharp salute. "Yes, ma'am."

The sound of Angela Rossi's children laughing together follows them into the kitchen.

It's a spacious room with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances and every surface gleams. The other three men are seated at the kitchen table, well-worn cookbooks and loose recipes scrawled by hand on stained and sticky notebook paper spread out between them.

Joe slides the tray onto the counter by the sink and smiles gently at Emily. "Thanks for playing along. They need to make plans and, well, I just think they need to be together."

She answers with a smile of her own. "I think you're right."

He motions her to the table. "Hey, fellas, you remember Emily?"

If she had to rely solely on her memory from the wedding Emily would probably not have remembered any of their names, but she's participated in enough Rossi family conversations between Dave, his mother, his sister and his niece that she feels fairly confident that she knows which man belongs to which sister. John is married to Sophia; Tony is Francesca's husband and Theo's wife is Gabriella. All three greet her warmly and Joe holds out a chair for her at the table. "You want a glass of wine?"

Theo has a beer at his elbow, there's a Diet Coke beside Tony and there are wine glasses in front of John and the empty place she assumes is Joe's. She considers for a minute but three hours of sleep will not see her through until dark if she has a glass of wine. "I think I'll wait until dinner." She points to the soda. "If you've got another one of those, though, that would be wonderful."

"It's a done deal." Joe goes to the refrigerator. "Ice?"

"No thanks. The bottle will be fine," she says, looking with interest at the recipes covering the table top.

Theo notes her gaze. "We're trying to decide on our meal. What's your dish?"

She tilts her head. "My dish?"

John nods. "Everybody's got a special dish they make; what's yours?"

Despite telling Dave about the cooking classes she took when she worked in Chicago, Emily doesn't use what she learned that often. It's not that she doesn't enjoy it, she does. But it's much more fun to cook when she's cooking for more than just herself. She can't even remember the last time her refrigerator had more than take-out or dust in it. But she's still confident in her abilities and her special dish is something she learned long before Chicago. "Baked ziti."

Joe purses his lips as he hands her the open bottle of soda while Theo and John smile.

Tony looks amused. "No offense Emily, but you look like maybe you've got a relative or two that might have come over on the Mayflower and you're going to make baked ziti for a bunch of Italians?"

"Hey!" Theo and John both say at once.

Waving a hand at them, Tony takes a sip of his drink. "Please, your Greek and Scotch-Irish asses have been in this family long enough you've been assimilated." He points at John. "Last time we went out to dinner you bitched about the meatballs, so don't tell me thirty years hasn't converted your palate." He turns back to Emily, clearly teasing. "I'm sure we can find you some white bread and some mayonnaise."

Emily cocks an eyebrow in challenge and says, "Your mother never told you not to judge a book by its cover?" Only she says it in Italian.

John and Theo both laugh and Joe claps Tony on the shoulder. "Hey, pisan, maybe you should tell Emily the only Italian you know is 'Ferrari' and about half a dozen curse words."

Flushed and grinning, Tony protests. "I know more than that; I know 'lasagna' and 'canoli' and 'penne'." He aims a wink in Emily's direction. "I even know 'ziti'."

"What time is dinner?" Emily checks her watch, wondering if she has enough time to make her own sauce or if she'll have to settle for something out of a jar.

"Eight? Eight-thirty?" Joe supplies. "We're not on a schedule; as long as we put out something for them to nibble on before then we're good."

Emily nods. "That's totally doable." The sauce is better the longer it rests; it will be good tonight but amazing tomorrow.

After the abortion, Emily withdrew from the few friends she'd had. Looking back on it now, Emily realizes she was manifesting all the signs of depression. The ambassador simply chalked it up to teenage angst when Emily stopped going out except to go to school. Elizabeth rousted her from her room on a regular basis or had the household staff chase Emily from hiding there, so she'd taken to haunting the kitchens. Giovanna, the chef, started giving her little jobs, slowly drawing out the fifteen-year-old Emily. The chef declared cooking the cure for all sadness and painstakingly taught Emily many of Giovanna's family recipes, including an incredible marinara and an amazing baked ziti.

Joe shows her the pantry along with the pots and pans. Though Joe swears he spent his retirement fund at Costco that morning, Tony and John are going to make a grocery store run for a few odds and ends they need for their various dishes. Emily gives them specific instructions about sausage and Tony gives her more good-natured grief. "See, you don't even know what goes in ziti. Who puts sausage in ziti?"

"Evidently, Emily does," Joe says from in front of the mixer where he's unwrapping several packages of cream cheese for a cheesecake. "Rose says we want to keep Emily around, so you better be nice to her, Tony."

"Hey, I'll be nice." Tony looks indignant. "I _am_ nice. Anything else you want, Emily?"

Using a purple elastic band she finds in her pocket, Emily pulls her hair up into a ponytail in preparations for cooking. "No, but be sure to get that white bread and mayonnaise for yourself, amico."

An hour and a half later, Emily's sauce is simmering, Joe's cheesecake is in the oven and they're helping Theo knead bread dough while he tells Emily the story of Angela Rossi and how he came to be a part of the Rossi clan. "Gab's pop had just died when my pop found out I was gettin' ready to propose; you'd have thought it was the end of the world. It was okay we'd been dating for almost three years but when it gets down to it, my folks start throwing a fit because I need to marry a nice Greek girl." He flips his round of dough and sprinkles some flour over the top.

"I'm still determined to marry her, but I'm torn to Hell 'cause my pop says I'm no son of theirs if I don't marry a Greek girl." Pushing firmly on the disk of dough under his hands, he smiles. "I'm packing my stuff, getting ready to move out, figuring that's it, this is the last I'll see my family and Mama Angela shows up."

He pauses his kneading for a moment, eyes distant with memory, his expression fond and amused. "She marched up to the door, Davey was following her, yellin' at her the whole time to calm down, be reasonable, but she was spittin' fire. My pop, he was a mountain of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, he filled up the doorway."

Theo shakes his head. "Mama Angela just reached up and grabbed his ear and it was all over. She told him he might be fresh off the boat, but this was America, not Greece, and his son and her daughter could marry anyone they wanted. And who did he think he was and she hoped he didn't consider himself a Christian thinking he was going to disown his own son just for being in love and wanting to get married. Then she says she sure as Hell didn't want to share any grandchildren with him and she'd make sure they were raised 100% Italian."

His fingers dent the dough as he resumes kneading, folding it over itself and turning it. "Then she let go of his ear, turned around and stomped back to the car." He barks out a short, sharp laugh. "Pop was standing in the doorway rubbing his ear, I was standing in the hall with my mouth open and Davey was standing in the yard staring and all three of us were just...stunned. Then Angela honks the horn and tells Davey to get in the car and drive her home."

Emily tries to picture the sweet, diminutive Angela Rossi the way her son-in-law has just described and fails, utterly. "What happened?" She punches down her own mound of dough, pressing, folding and turning, the dough elastic under her flour-dusted fingers.

Joe grins and Theo laughs again. "Pop tells me to put on my best suit and he puts on his. It's Sunday and the whole neighborhood knows the Rossis have dinner at Rosalie's house on Sundays. We show up..."

"I have never seen so many flowers." Joe shakes his head as he smoothes his dough into a loaf shape.

Theo nods. "He was friends with Mr. Katrotis, the florist; he got him to open up special so Pop could buy flowers...that was before the grocery stores started carrying flowers." His loaf is forming under his hands. "So, we show up with bouquets for every one of the Rossi women, two for Mama Angela. Then, right there in front of her whole family, Pop proposes to Gabriella for me; gives me his own mother's rings for her to wear."

He gives Emily a smile, nodding approvingly at the oblong dough shape she's made. "She's still wearing them. But my pop was halfway torn between admiration and absolute terror for Mama Angela the rest of his life. He always told me I was lucky to have her for a mother-in-law but I better never cross her."

"That seems like really good advice," Emily says, somewhat dryly.

"Oh, it was good advice." Joe nods. "The only reason the four of us lasted so long married to the Rossi sisters, we learned early not to cross Mama Angela."

"I'll take your word for it." Emily washes her hands, trying to reconcile the tiny old woman she knew as Dave's mother with this fierce lioness her sons-in-law are describing.

Joe hands her a paper towel. "Oh, see, she took one look at you and decided Dave had finally gotten it right; she was only gonna let you see her sweet side so she didn't scare you off. Trust me, the three before you? They did not just see the sweet side."

Emily flushes hotly, the feeling of being a fraud returning in spades. It's one thing not to shatter his family's illusion that she and Dave are more than just friends, but quite another to know they're thinking of her in more permanent terms.

Theo smacks the side of Joe's head lightly. "You're embarrassing Emily."

Instead of apologizing, Joe just snorts. "She's going to be around this family for the next few days, she's going to have to get used to it."

"Next few days." Theo moves the loaves to a baking sheet. "Next few decades. To-may-toe, to-mah-toe, you still shouldn't embarrass her."

Joe opens the oven and studies his cheesecake. "I was just saying Angela wasn't always nice to Davey's other wives; what's to be embarrassed about?" Evidently deciding it wasn't ready, Joe shuts the oven door.

"Probably the bit with the three other wives," Theo says, tossing a clean dishtowel over the dough. "She probably doesn't need the reminder."

"She's also _right here._" Emily stirs her sauce, feeling slightly, helplessly humiliated. She knows they're being kind, playing with her and teasing her, accepting her into their group, trying to make her feel welcome. It's not even the guilt at deceiving them that's weighing so heavily on her at the moment, it's her own willingness to play along, to be accepted, teased,_ loved_. She's not sure if it's wishful thinking or hope that Rossi, too, will fall into the illusion.

Her self-profiling is interrupted as Tony and John come through the back door laden with grocery bags. Tony takes one look at Emily's face and shakes his head. "Why's she blushing? Have you two found a problem with Dave's May-December romance?"

John frowns. "Hey, now. Dave's ten years younger than I am." He begins pulling cans of tomatoes and a jar of olives from his grocery bag. "I'm not really willing to call this a May-December romance." His eyes flick over Emily. "Let's go May-late August. Mid-September, at the latest."

Joe looks at her and smiles gently. "She's not blushing. It's the heat from the stove." He directs a wink at Emily then looks at Tony. "If you ever pulled your weight in the kitchen you'd know the difference."

Tony makes a completely indignant noise. "Not pull my weight?" His voice rises. "Not pull my weight? Who kept you in Italian beef and sausage and peppers every time your wife had a baby or one of your kids was sick?" He hands Emily the box of ziti from his grocery bag.

"Tony," Joe says as he pulls out a large pot for the pasta, "what have you done for me lately?"

"All these years," Tony sighs dramatically, "and this is the thanks I get?" He moves a little closer to the stove as he pauses in his put-upon act and inhales deeply. "Yo, White Bread, that smells pretty good. Let an old man have a taste?"

Emily laughs. "Be my guest."

"Get a clean spoon," Theo says, "and no double dipping."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony says, pulling two spoons out of the drawer and handing one to John. When the bit of sauce settles on his tongue his eyes widen and he turns to Emily, his look nothing less than shocked. "Holy Mother. That is amazing."

"Let me," John says, helping himself to a generous portion with his spoon. He doesn't look surprised so much as he looks gleeful. "Emily. Please tell me you're Scotch-Irish."

Smiling, she shakes her head. "Descended almost completely from the British with a few French thrown in; I'm sorry."

Sadly, John shakes his head. "That's worse than Italian."

"We're going to make her an honorary Italian," Joe says.

"Bringing another one to ruination?" Rosalie questions, coming through the door with the empty wine bottles; her eyes and nose are redder than they were before and it's quite obvious she's been crying since they saw her last. Joe doesn't comment, he simply draws her close and folds her against his chest.

Tony nods towards the door and John and Theo follow. Emily wavers for just a moment, knowing they're going to their wives and not sure what comfort she could or should offer Dave, but she can't stay in the kitchen disturbing this private moment between Rosalie and her husband. Slowly she follows the men out of the kitchen, leaving Rosalie and Joe to their sad and tender moment.

On the sofa, Theo has Gabriella's hand and John is behind Sophia's chair, with a hand on her shoulder. Tony is hovering over Francesca, who is huddled against Dave's shoulder on the love seat. Teresa is nowhere in sight and Tony catches Dave's eye, inclining his head and somehow between them they shift Francesca to Tony's broader shoulder.

As Tony pulls his wife close, Dave stands and walks over to Emily. She has a moment of panic not knowing what to do; this situation is intensely personal. What she wants to do is reach out and hug him. With everyone assuming she and Dave are more than they are, it would be easy to fall into it and offer more than is appropriate, more than Dave wants, even if it's what she wants. But then she looks at his face; he looks tired, pained and a little lost so that all of her panic and uncertainty fades as she slips her arm around his waist. "How are you doing?" she asks quietly.

He pulls her in, pulls her tight against him and presses his face against her hair. "I've had better days."

"I know," she says gently and feels him squeeze just before he releases her.

He guides her out of the living room towards the back of the house. "How about some fresh air?" he asks, indicating the French doors in the den.

"That would be good," she agrees, stepping through as he opens one of the doors.

The patio is obviously a favorite place with pretty but comfortable-looking furniture and a plethora of potted plants as well as a trellis with some sort of climbing vine winding its way up. All of it looks out on a fenced backyard with stepping stones dotted between numerous flowerbeds and decorative plantings. Dave and Emily sit on a cedar bench swing mounted to a matching a frame with a cheerful canopy that matches the cushions.

He's silent for a bit, but it's not uncomfortable, so Emily just sits next to him absorbing the everything around them. It's warm but not overbearingly hot and the sun is starting to set so the air is just beginning to cool. Someone close has recently mowed their lawn, the smell of fresh cut grass hangs in the air and the sound of small children playing a game drifts over the fence from somewhere in the neighborhood.

Dave reaches out a hand and rubs the shiny leaf of a nearby plant between his thumb and forefinger. When he starts speaking, his voice is steady but distant with memory. "Rosalie and Joe used to live in this house that was over a hundred years old; it had all these little old fashioned touches, things we don't even think about now...glass door knobs, claw-footed tubs , plaster walls with picture molding. The house had this unbelievable garden. There wasn't a square inch of turf in the backyard, it was all flowerbeds and paths and benches under big old trees."

He lets go of the leaf and sets the swing into gentle motion with a slight kick of his foot. "Mama loved that garden; she spent most of her time out there, three-quarters of the year. She did it all: planting, weeding, mulching, digging. 'Playing in the dirt' she used to call it. But after Donna died, Joe and Rose started talking about moving so the kids could go to better schools. Rose was so upset about about it, she loved the house but mainly she didn't want to take Mama away from the garden. Mama didn't bat an eye; she just took a few cuttings from her favorite plants and left all the rest behind. She told Rose she was like her plants, she could thrive anywhere, but those kids needed the best place to put down roots."

Smiling slightly, he shakes his head. "She was eighty-two the day they moved here; the next day she was out here with a shovel and a turning fork."

Emily smiles wistfully, and looks at the yard with fresh eyes. There are beds of blooming flowers encircling trees and more trellises against the back fence. There are bird feeders on shepherd's hooks in several places around the yard. It looks as though at least a few of the stepping stones that wind through the backyard are handmade, some decorated with little hand prints and others with brightly colored glass stones. "It's beautiful, Dave."

He looks out at the yard, still for a moment before he nods. "Yeah, it is. She hasn't been able to do a lot of the heavier stuff the last few years, but the kids have helped. It was good for them to spend time with her."

"She sounds like an extraordinary woman, Dave." She finds herself wishing she had known Angela Rossi better than the one meeting and a few computer calls had allowed.

"I'm a lucky man to have so many extraordinary women in my life." Dave squeezes her hand where it rests between them and Emily feels her heart jump before he continues. "Teresa has gone to pick up Father Frank; he's going to join us for dinner. Mama's...the service is going to be Tuesday afternoon."

Emily nods, her heart breaking just a little at the sadness in his voice.

"You know," he says, leaning his head back, the gesture both weary and anguished, "I understand what Rose was saying about wanting to celebrate Mama's life instead of mourning her death, but when it gets right down to the heart of the matter, I'm a selfish bastard and I can't help...this is a loss, it's not unexpected, but it's a terrible, painful loss."

Her throat is thick and burning from unshed tears so she can barely answer him. "I know."

He moves his head forward to look into her eyes, looking for something, but she has no idea what. Whatever he's looking for must be there, because he squeezes her hand again and sighs. "Will you stay?"

She's confused for a minute. "What?"

"I'll probably go back sometime Wednesday." He's leaned his head back again, but he looks less troubled. "Will you stay here with me?"

"Dave." Now she really does want to cry but for entirely different reasons. Whatever else that may be going on, they are friends first. There is no way to guard her heart or her pride in the face of that simple fact; she will do whatever he asks, give whatever he wants, be whatever he needs. "Of course, I'll stay."

"Thank you," he sighs, and she's almost certain she feels some of the tension leave his body just in the way his hand rests over hers.

"I told Hotch I'd let him know about the arrangements," she reminds him quietly.

"After while. I mean, that'd be good, if you could do that," he says, his voice gone quiet and peaceful. "But not yet; just stay here for a bit."

"Okay." She leans her head back against the swing, mirroring his pose.

They stay like that, side by side, breathing to the soft rhythm of the swing, his hand never leaving hers until Sophia comes to tell them Father Frank has arrived.

Emily goes with Dave to meet the priest; she is expecting someone elderly, probably of Italian descent. Instead she finds a rather large African-American man her age or possibly younger. He shakes her hand and embraces Dave, and when she returns to the kitchen she learns from Joe that Father Frank and Angela had been particularly close since they had moved to this parish when Father Frank was first ordained.

"Father Frank took to Mama Angela right away. The pair of them managed to cause more trouble than a couple of delinquent teenagers." Joe shakes his head fondly. "I just found out a year or so ago Father Frank never knew his own mother; she died when he was a baby. I don't know how Mama spotted it, but she started mothering him almost from the minute she met him." He adds a generous portion of salt to the pot of water Emily is heating to boil the ziti. Then he looks at Emily, smiling a little. "Maybe profiling is a genetic trait."

She shrugs as she drains the sausage in preparation of adding it to the sauce. "Part of it is natural and intuitive and part of it is a learned skill."

Joe leans against the counter next to the stove, wiping his thick fingers on a dishtowel. "I wouldn't want to know what everybody around me was thinking all the time."

Emily scrapes the meat from the skillet into the pot with the sauce. "Heh. I wouldn't want to either. And some days I wish it was that easy."

Theo, currently on dish duty, removes the skillet from her hand. "At least you never have to wonder what Davey's thinking."

Emily can't help but feel a little wistful at that, because Theo is right. If Dave has an opinion on something he's not shy about sharing it. But she does wish she knew what he was thinking about her, wishes she knew how he felt, if this shift in their relationship means something. If it were any other man she would definitely think so, but it's the very forthrightness Theo is referring to that makes her wonder if the shift is only in her imagination. True, they're spending more time together and they have gotten more tactile with each other, hugs and hand-holding. But they've also been through a few harrowing things together and all of it could simply be a deepening of their friendship.

She lets out a shaky breath, feeling a wash of sadness. Then she mentally shakes herself. Even if she loves him and continues to want impossible things, she will take a deeper friendship over a safe heart any day.

"Earth to White Bread, come in White Bread," Tony says from beside her. "You totally zoned out there. Dreaming of mayonnaise?"

Emily shakes her head as if to clear it then gives him a grin. "Sorry, hot air always makes me a little sleepy."

There's a chorus of "Oh!"s and even Tony holds up his hand, laughing. "Ouch." He shakes his head and repeats, "Ouch. I just wanted to know if you were ready for a glass of wine."

She looks at the clock and decides she isn't likely to fall face down in her dinner plate and nods as she dumps the pasta into the boiling water. "Thanks, yeah, that'd be good."

A glass is in her hand in less than a minute and she leans against the counter beside Joe while the ziti cooks. There's a brief debate about what to send to the other room for an appetizer but John's artichoke dip wins over Theo's suggestion of cheese and crackers just before the timer goes off on the pasta. While John puts together the dip, Emily assembles the baked ziti and leaves it atop the stove for Theo to slide into the oven when he pulls his bread out.

The kitchen smells heavenly, the tangy smell of garlic intermingling with the aroma of the baking bread. She takes over dish duty long enough to wash the sauce and pasta pots, then she, Tony and John put the leaf in the already large dining room table and begin setting out plates and flatware. She feels surprisingly comfortable and, thankfully, useful as she watches Tony and John squabble over whether to use linen or paper napkins. John huffs off to get the linen napkins and Tony nods at her wine glass. "You ready for a refill?"

"Not just yet." She watches as he nods and takes another drink from his Diet Coke bottle. "You're not having any?"

"Nah." Tony smiles at her. "I'm a friend of Bill W. Sober twenty-seven years last month." His voice is sincere, absent the bluster and bravado he'd been using to tease her and his in-laws all afternoon. "Though that's a family story you should hear." He pulls out a drawer in the china hutch revealing rows of silverware.

Emily walks over and begins counting out pieces with him. "Mama Angela?" she questions. As many unexpected stories of the fearless matriarch as she's heard today she wouldn't be a bit surprised.

"Nope." He grins. "Davey. Well, Davey and his service weapon."

Emily knows she's gaping but can't quite stop even when Tony laughs gently. "It's not quite as bad as I made that sound." He holds a butter knife up to the light, then uses the edge of the dishtowel slung over his shoulder to polish it. "I'd been a drunk off and on since I was fifteen. It wasn't always obvious to the people around me; Fran actually hadn't figured it out until we'd been married a while. After Thomas, our oldest, was born I went on a bender the likes of which are legend at AA meetings and she locked me out the house. Long story short, Dave found me in whatever dive I was killing my brain cells in, rented a hotel room, stayed with me while I slept it off. When I finally woke up he tells me to go get a shower. When I come out there are two cups of coffee and a gun on the table."

"Oh, dear God," she breathes.

Tony laughs. "It was, pardon the pun, sobering." He hands her a fistful of salad forks. "He never said anything about the gun, just asked me what I was gonna do, was I gonna get sober or go ahead and get out of Francesca's life? Cause he'd make sure she got taken care of, he'd make sure Thomas had everything he needed. He was so calm, pleasant even, and that gun sat there the whole time, right between our coffee cups."

She counts out twelve salad forks and shakes her head.

"So, I told him I thought maybe it was time for me to get sober." He matches dinner forks to her salad forks. "He just nods at me, sort of sympathetic and hands me a list of AA meetings and puts the gun back in his holster. And then he took me to three AA meetings that day. And three the next day. And three the next. For a week we didn't do nothing but drink bad coffee and hang out in church basements."

Emily takes the knives Tony's already counted out and puts one with each set of forks; she's almost afraid to speak. She sees Dave in her mind's eye, younger, yes, but no less confident and perfectly pleasant with a gun in easy reach.

"He went back to DC at the end of the week, told me it was up to me whether I stayed sober or not and he'd paid for the hotel for another two weeks...that was long before his first book got published and I know it wasn't like he could afford paying for a hotel for three weeks, but he did it. Anyway, he says the room is paid up for another two weeks, after that it was up to me, but he was pretty sure Fran would take me back if I stayed sober."

He leans a hip against the table. "But the whole time he's saying these things, he's standing there with his hands on his hips and his gun is _right there_." Tony laughs. "That's probably not the only time someone has been urged to sobriety with a gun but, let me tell you, it was _memorable_. Even then, as messed up as I was, I remember a part of me being really grateful to Davey and his damned service weapon."

John laughs as he reenters the room. "You told her the sobriety at gunpoint story?" He circles the table placing a napkin at each place and Emily follows with the forks.

Tony grabs the knives and spoons. "It's a good story."

"Better than any of my stories," John concedes. He turns to look at Emily. "You need to know it's okay to _not_ have drama, Emily. They'll still let you hang out."

"Yeah, the Drama-less Duo...you two can be like super heroes." Tony nods to Emily. "You can be Super White Bread." Then to John. "You can be her sidekick, Boy Wonder Bread."

She listens to John and Tony tease each other as they round the table with dinner and salad plates. When the table is complete they rejoin Theo and Joe in the kitchen and beneath the chaos of final preparations for dinner for twelve, Emily realizes she's comfortable. These men have folded her into their group, accepted her and claimed her as one of them. It's a bittersweet feeling, but here in this moment, as Joe hands her four serving spoons and a pair of salad tongs to carry to the table, Emily allows herself to savor the sweet.

Dinner is a boisterous affair once grace has been said. Emily's presence gives the family a reason for telling stories of Angela Rossi and Emily's grateful to know more about Dave's mother and to provide the family with an audience. A small comfort, she knows, but a comfort nonetheless.

It's almost eleven when Emily's phone beeps with a text from Hotch: _How are things?_ She excuses herself to make a call. Though Rossi's listening to Father Frank tell a tale of calling on the sick at a home for the aged accompanied by the Rossi family matriarch, a case of mistaken identity and a very indignant Mama Rossi, Emily feels his eyes follow her out of the room. She smiles at him over her shoulder and he smiles in return; she doesn't miss Rosalie's tiny grin - quickly covered by her wineglass - as she watches the silent exchange.

Emily makes her way back to the patio where the only noise is the steady buzz and chirp of night insects. There are dozens of small pathway lights dotting the edges of the flowerbeds and several solar lanterns at the corners of the patio giving the backyard a soft glow against the dark. Seeing strings of tiny unlit lights interwoven amongst the vines climbing the trellis, she takes a moment to imagine a summer party, a happy night with laughing voices and twinkling lights and she finds herself a little bit seduced by the idea of home being more than someplace she stays between cases.

Sighing, she sits in a chair beside the swing and dials Hotch.

"Hotchner."

It's less than five minutes since she received his text but innate politeness makes her ask anyway. "I hope it's not too late to call."

"No, we just got in." He sounds tired and she finds herself grateful for the nap she'd had earlier in the day.

"Did everything wrap up all right?" She rests the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulls the elastic from her hair, combing her fingers through it as she listens to his answer.

"After your observation about the mention of his mother, Garcia did some digging. Ryan's mother was married three times, all of them were doctors, including Ryan's father. The second husband is still in the area and was more than willing to talk to us about how he felt Ryan and his mother were a little too close." On the other end of the line, she hears the clink of something, possibly ice into a glass. "When we started talking to Ryan about incest, he cracked. We have a full confession and Reid was right, it was more than we thought. A lot more."

She nods even though she knows he can't see her. "Is his mother still alive?"

"She died eighteen months ago. We're pretty sure that's the stressor." There's a pause and Emily knows he's trying to transition from Ryan's completely inappropriate relationship with his mother to Dave and the loss of _his_ mother. But then he just bridges the gap from professional to personal with a softening of his voice. "How's Dave?"

Emily thinks about that for a minute; all in all she hasn't spent too much time alone with him other than the time they'd been out here on the patio together. "All things considered, I think he's doing okay." She stretches her foot out and touches the edge of the swing with the tip of her shoe causing a ghost of movement. "His family…well, like you said this morning, he's very close to them and they're all propping each other up."

"It helps, I'm sure." Hotch sighs and Emily wonders if he's thinking of the future and Jack or his own losses. "Have the arrangements been settled?"

"Yes, sorry, I just haven't had an opportunity to call." She leans her head against the back of the chair. "Tuesday afternoon at two, St. Gabriel's Catholic Church; I don't have an address." She knows Garcia will be able to find it with no problem; well, anyone with an internet connection and the ability to type should be able to find it with no problem.

"All right. Thanks." She notices he's careful not to commit to being there; the job shows no consideration for any event if they're in rotation. And while he'd said this morning they were due for step-down, that, too, is unpredictable and he wouldn't know until he's had a chance to speak with Strauss. "Please let Dave know we're all thinking about him."

"I will; I'm sure he'll appreciate it." Emily hesitates; she's doing what she can but it feels like pitifully little. Hotch has known Dave almost twenty years and they're close. She wants to ask for help in helping Dave, but she also doesn't want to embarrass anyone or herself by making it obvious how she feels.

Thankfully, Hotch is either more intuitive than she thinks or she's already shown her hand because his voice is gentle when he speaks. "When Haley died everyone kept asking me if there was anything they could do and I thanked them all and I _did_ appreciate the thought, but there wasn't anything anybody could do. There was just…she was gone, and nothing was going to ease that pain." He takes a shaky breath. "Dave asked the same question and he got the same answer as everyone else, but he didn't nod at the thank you and walk away; he was here every day. He played with Jack, he helped Jessica with travel arrangements for Haley's relatives, he washed dishes, he went to the cleaners. And when all the errands were run and all of the arrangements were made and there was nothing left to do, he was still here. He stayed and it made all the difference."

Emily can hear the emotion in Hotch's voice and, for what feels like the thousandth time that day, she finds herself fighting tears.

Hotch clears his throat and continues, "I wish I could repay the favor but I can't. But if you're looking for something to do for him, I can tell you that just being there is the most powerful thing you can do, Emily." He pauses and she hears him exhale. "I don't feel so bad about not being able to be there knowing you're there for him."

Apparently that's all it takes because Emily feels herself lose the fight against crying as she feels a tear roll down her cheek. "Hotch…"

"Just be there, Emily." Hotch's voice is full of reassurance.

"Okay." She nods, blotting the tears with the heel of her hand. "Yeah."

There's the sound of water running and the clank of glass against porcelain. "Call if either of you need anything."

"Yeah." She's trying not to sniff; she doesn't want him to know she's crying. "Thanks, Hotch. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Emily."

She ends the call and closes her eyes, breathing in the night air, breathing through the tightness in her chest, the burning in her throat, not sure whether she's crying for Dave and his sisters or Hotch and Jack or herself or all of them. It doesn't really matter, maybe she's just crying to remind herself she's alive and though there's pain in life, there's also love and that's everything.

The smell of the grass from earlier has faded and in its place is the smell of something floral and sweet. The air has cooled considerably with the setting of the sun and it is easy and peaceful to be in this place for a few minutes with her eyes closed, letting the sounds and smells of the night wash over her.

A quiet footstep alerts her to another presence and when she opens her eyes, Dave is standing in front of her chair, frowning down at her. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." She nods and gives him a soft smile. "Hotch wanted to ask how you were doing and see about the arrangements."

He's still frowning and she wonders how much her tears are showing. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes, Dave." She tries for a tone somewhere between teasing and exasperated as she stands. "I didn't mean to flake out. I was just enjoying the night air."

His eyes search her face but he doesn't press and she's grateful when he shifts his look to take in the yard and the sky. "Yeah, it's a nice one." Looking back at her he gives her a smile. "Your fan club sent me to find you."

Emily isn't sure if he means his sisters or his brothers-in-law and she decides it doesn't really matter. They are all extraordinarily kind and wonderfully welcoming, folding her into their family as if they've all known her for years. "Your family is wonderful."

"Yeah," he concedes, dragging the word out. "If they like you; if they don't, you're pretty well screwed."

She gives a little laugh because she can fully believe that and the thought of how difficult it could be is daunting. "I'm grateful they like me, then."

Dave gives a derisive snort. "Like you? When this is all over I think they're gonna kick me out and keep you."

Even knowing he means it as a joke it's still a reminder that this is make believe and when Angela's funeral is over and they go back to DC, this illusion of belonging will be over. There's a pinch in the middle of her chest at the thought, but then Dave has his arm around her waist and is walking her back into the house.

_You have right now,_ a small, hopeful voice says. _Enjoy what you have now._

All twelve of them clear the dining room and help clean the kitchen. It goes quickly even if there's a lot of bumping elbows and running into each other. When the kitchen and dining room have been restored to their former sparkling states, the sisters begin taking their leave and Emily finds herself hugged and kissed by everyone except Father Frank who just shakes her hand again.

"We'll be back tomorrow, White Bread." Tony's hug is warm and he winks at her when he draws back. "Don't let Davey eat all the leftovers; that was the best ziti I ever had."

Emily's grin is natural and wide. "If you're nice I'll give you the recipe."

He grins back at her. "If _you're_ nice how about you just keep makin' it for me?"

Francesca makes an affectionately exasperated face at him. "How about you quit talking and drive me home?"

After everyone is gone, Rosalie and Dave slip into Angela Rossi's room together. Not wanting to intrude on such a private moment between sister and brother, Emily bids Joe goodnight as he walks around the downstairs, locking doors and turning out lights.

There are towels laid out in the bathroom as Cheryl promised, but Emily has always preferred to shower in the morning. She puts on a camisole and pajama pants, then washes her face and brushes her teeth before climbing into bed, taking the same side that she had for their afternoon nap. Curling on her side with her back to the door, she decides the courteous thing to do is to leave the light on. Sighing slightly, she puts her mind toward going to sleep. Her body is craving rest and it has the least potential for awkward if she would just fall asleep right away, so, of course, as soon as her head touches the pillow her eyes are wide open and sleep seems far away.

Dave comes quietly into the room some fifteen minutes later and she hears him rustling in his go bag, the lamp clicks off and the bathroom door closes, revealing only a thin ribbon of light beneath. After a minute the shower starts and Emily listens to the water run; she doesn't imagine him naked or indulge in a fantasy of finding a reason to join him, but she does think about him standing under the hot water, how it must feel against his skin. When she's especially tired or things have been particularly rough she will zone out in the shower, just stand and let the water rain down on her, let it wash away her exhaustion, her pain, her sins. Since joining the BAU, there have been too many times to count when the hot water has begun to fade and she'd hurriedly washed in rapidly cooling water.

Rossi either doesn't get the same comfort from it she does or his mind is too active to enjoy it because the water cuts off in less than ten minutes. Less than five minutes after that, the bathroom light flicks out and the door opens, releasing a small cloud of steamy heat into the bedroom. The mattress dips as Dave gets in the bed; the green glow from the bedside clock reveals only a basic outline of his face and body but she can feel the tension radiating off him.

Maybe it's today or the days to come or he's changed his mind about sharing a bed with her, but he's practically vibrating he's so tense. She doesn't have anything figured out but she knows he needs sleep, so she speaks softly into the darkness. "Hey."

He turns his head towards her, the sound of the movement clear in the hush of the room. "I thought you were asleep." His voice is quiet, pitched low, just above a whisper; it feels more intimate than the fact that they're sharing a bed.

"No, not asleep yet." She shifts a little, trying to see his face in the dark. "Are you okay?" Then she feels foolish for asking; of course he's not okay.

He turns onto his side, facing her. "I guess I'm as okay as I can be."

There's pain there, but there's also acceptance and it wrings her heart a little. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?" She thinks about Hotch's words earlier and the futility of that question; but she also knows she can't _not_ ask, just in case there's _something._

"Would..." He swallows heavily. "I don't want to overstep any boundaries here."

Emily wants to laugh. He knows all of her secrets, they're teammates, partners more often than not, this is the third time they've shared a bed and she's really sort of hopelessly in love with him. As far as she's concerned, there just aren't a lot of boundaries left. "What, Dave?" She tries to make her voice as gentle as possible. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark and she can see his face but accurately reading his expression is not possible. "What do you need?"

He doesn't answer right away, but his hand comes up and touches her hair, pushing it back from her cheek then lingering. "I don't want to sound needy or demanding, but would you mind..."

He leaves his unfinished request lingering in the air between them and she _feels_ him struggling with what he wants to ask.

"Dave." She makes her voice soft, accepting. "What do you need? Anything. Just name it."

He sighs a little and she can't name the mix of emotion in his tone when he speaks. "Could you hold me?"

The sound she makes is a little bit of heartbreak, but is quickly covered under the rustle of cotton and covers as she moves to wrap her arms around him and she feels his arms go around her. He's warm and solid against her and she pulls him close, hugs him tight. She's no Spencer Reid but she knows enough about the bio-chemical benefits of touch to understand this need isn't personal, that any friend or loved one could offer the same lessening of anxiety. But she is grateful it's her here beside him, grateful for the press of his head against her neck, the clutch of his arms around her body.

When she feels the moist touch of a tear against her skin she wants to weep with him. Instead, she pushes closer against him, making soothing noises. Gently, she runs her fingers through the soft hairs at the back of his neck, holding him close, letting him cry against her, willing him to be comforted.

After awhile he quiets and his grip eases, though he does keep her close, arms still wrapped around her. It's not long before she hears his breath deepen and even out and she knows he's asleep. Taking stock, she finds one of her legs tangled between his and her chest pressed firmly against his and she suddenly remembers she's wearing a fairly thin camisole that provides very little coverage for her breasts. Attempting to ease away from him only meets with a tightening of his arms and a muffled and sleepy protest, so she subsides, giving a mental shrug. It's not like she's trying to seduce him, and they're bound to shift position during the night anyway. And if she's honest, she'd awakened several times since Charleston longing for the sensation of sleeping in his arms again. While this is not the way she fantasized about it happening, they're here and he's strong and warm and smells really good, so she relaxes against him, letting sleep take her down.

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating:** FRT/PG13  
**Author's Notes:** This fic is the wonderful **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. She is an incredible writer and an absolutely incredible person. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan.

**smacky30** and **smittywing** fix my punctuation and tell me when I'm being dumb without telling me I am dumb. They are both incredible and I am fortunate to have them as betas.

* * *

When Emily wakes in the morning, she's alone. She's relieved there won't be any awkward moments - though they appear to have gotten good at working through those - but she's also a little sad that she didn't get the opportunity to wake up beside him, see his face in sleep and let her imagination whisper _this is what it could be like._

Rolling to her side, she looks at the clock and sees that it's a little after six. Dave's pillow is still dented but the sheet is cool to the touch. Without hesitation or shame, she pulls his pillow close and buries her face in it, inhaling the clean scent of him. Even before she realized her feelings for him were more than just friendship and professional camaraderie, whenever he leaned close she would think, _He smells nice._ Now that they're closer and she's aware just how deep her feelings run, the scent of him always puts her senses on alert. And sharing a bed with him, cradling his pillow is an exercise in sensory immersion.

Releasing the pillow reluctantly, she rises and quickly makes the bed, hands lovingly smoothing the dent in the pillow and the wrinkles in the sheets on his side of the bed. After the bed is made, she takes a shower then does her make-up. Since she's not sure who is up and who isn't, she towel dries her hair as best she can, rather than running the risk of waking someone with the blow dryer. She puts it up in a ponytail then plaits the ponytail with deft fingers. Though she's unsure what the day will bring, her wardrobe options are relatively limited, so she dresses in jeans with a black blouse. Oddly grateful that the job often requires her to go to victims' funerals, she pulls her black skirt out of the bottom of her go bag and hangs it, along with her suit jacket, up in the closet.

She takes one last look around the room making sure everything is tidy then makes her way downstairs to the kitchen. Dave and Rosalie are sitting at the kitchen table, a coffee mug in front of each of them, heads bent over several dozen - maybe more - pictures spread out between them, nearly identical reading glasses perched on the ends of their noses. The sight makes her smile. "Good morning," she says quietly.

Rosalie and Dave both look up. "Morning." Dave's smile is soft.

"Emily!" Rosalie drops the picture she and Dave had been studying. "Let me get you some coffee."

She starts to rise but Emily holds out a hand. "Sit. I can get it, just direct me to the mugs and the sweetener."

Rosalie relaxes back into her seat. "Mugs are in the cabinet by the sink; there's some Equal in the cabinet over the stove. Dave says you use that Splenda stuff. We'll pick some up today but can you make do with the Equal this morning?"

"Equal is fine." Emily locates a mug and pours herself a cup of coffee and adds sweetener before ambling over to the table, eyes sweeping over the photographs spread out in front of them. Many are color photos, ranging from the crisp color of the twenty-first century to the faded colors particular to the 1970s: families, children, graduations, weddings and parties. There are quite a lot that are black and white, including a few that are sepia-toned, some unsmiling men in stiff-collared shirts and women with somber children clinging to their long skirts and others the same as their color counterparts, Christmases, new cars, baseball games, babies, children smiling widely in spite of missing front teeth. A family history in frozen images spread out on Rosalie's kitchen table.

Rosalie lifts the picture she'd been looking at with Dave and beneath there's a snapshot of a much younger Dave dressed in uniform, his arm around a petite dark haired girl that Emily is sure is not one of his sisters. The girl is beaming at the camera, and though Dave is smiling, Emily is sure the smile is forced. She feels her heart hitch when she sees the small bouquet in the girl's hand and Emily knows she's probably looking at a picture of Rossi's first wedding.

"I've never known you to be shy." Rosalie looks at her brother over her glasses. "It's okay to kiss your girl good morning. Just no make out sessions in front of the kids."

Emily feels her cheeks heat immediately and watches as Rossi shakes his head. "Cut it out, Rose."

"What?" Rosalie holds her hands open in a questioning gesture. "I'm just sayin'."

"And I'm saying cut it out." He gives his sibling a stern look. "All of you need to stop seeing who can embarrass Emily the most."

"But she's got such a pretty blush." Rosalie's grin is unapologetic.

Dave touches Emily's hand and inclines his head towards the chair on his opposite side. "She's also an only child and she grew up around people who had manners. Give her a break, all right?"

"All right, all right." The hands go up in a gesture of concession, but Rosalie still gives Emily a mischievous wink as Emily seats herself. When Emily looks back at the table, the picture of Dave and the girl is gone. "The people at the funeral home said they'd put together a slide show for us, but Cheryl asked to do it instead." Rosalie shakes her head fondly. "I can't seem to tell that girl 'no'." She hands Dave the picture she's holding. "What do you think of this one?"

He grunts and Emily looks over his shoulder. It's a family portrait, Angela and a man who looks so much like Dave it makes Emily blink, surrounded by their five daughters with a toddler Dave seated on Angela's lap; each of the family members has a nice, polite smile with the exception of Dave who appears to be in the middle of an open mouthed laugh. It's a nice picture, but somehow feels too solemn for the lively and loving family she knows the Rossi clan to be.

"Do you have a 'Maybe' pile?" Emily asks, resisting the urge to ask if she could have a copy of the picture.

Rosalie nods at her. "Good idea. We can give her ones we definitely want then tell her to pull what she wants from the 'Maybes'."

Dave and Rosalie continue sorting through pictures for another forty-five minutes, with Emily offering opinions when asked, but mostly she just observes, soaking in the images of this family, Angela, her husband, her daughters, her son. While it's obvious Angela was a loving mother to her daughters, it's equally obvious from the sheer number of pictures she doted heavily on her son.

When Joe comes through the back door with bagels and lattes, he's accompanied by Cheryl and Michael who had evidently spent the night with their Uncle Chris, Rosalie and Joe's oldest son. Cheryl at least seems very happy to be home, being unabashedly demonstrative to both of her grandparents and Dave. It's another loss in a life filled with too many. While that sucks, Emily has seen too much loss, too much grief, so she knows this family won't let anyone fall. Considering her history, it's natural that Cheryl is a little clingy, but the way the adults treat her with such love and patience speaks of a stability that will only benefit the girl in the end.

Shortly after nine, a seemingly endless parade of family, friends, food and flowers begins. Dave and his sisters go on several necessary errands and Emily stays behind helping Cheryl scan pictures and Joe man the kitchen. Dave's sisters and brothers-in-law had been a large presence the day before, but the extended family is beyond overwhelming. Luckily, either Dave had warned them to save her from the masses or 'Team In-Law', as Joe refers to them, are better at reading situations than they give themselves credit for, since one of them always seems to be close to her to supply a name or make her laugh or suggest getting a little air.

The day passes quickly and the sunset sees even more people and more food.

The family had decided against a public viewing or visitation so naturally everyone is gravitating towards Rosalie's home. All of the food has been laid out on the dining room table and the soft lights on the patio have been turned on. People pass from group to group offering condolences and stories of the Rossi family matriarch to her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There is a subdued party atmosphere, a celebration of a well-lived life.

John and Theo kick Emily and Joe out of the kitchen after night has truly arrived. "You've been in here all day working; let somebody else handle it for awhile." Joe goes to the rec room over the garage to find his daughter, Gina and six month old Joey, his youngest grandchild ("So far," he says and beams) and Emily wanders toward the French doors at the back of the house.

Enchanted by the lighted trellises and "fairy lights" twined around several of the smaller trees, Emily is drawn out into the back yard. While it's a warm summer evening, it feels easier for her to breathe out here than in the house where Dave and his sisters are constantly surrounded by what feels like a crush of people. There are quite a few people out here as well, but it isn't as crowded as inside the house. She feels a little awkward standing by herself with so many people clustered in groups of twos, threes and fours, but she's grateful for the air and the respite from conversation.

Walking around the backyard she notes all of the details of the gardens, the twisting vines, the small flower bed of impatiens planted in the shape of a heart, the stone turtle hiding amongst the hostas. She's studying several of the homemade stepping stones, trying to deduce which child, grandchild or great-grandchild made them when a voice at her elbow startles her. "You're here with Davey, right?"

Emily turns to see an elegant, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in her late forties or early fifties. At this point, Emily has stopped trying to define or defend her relationship with Dave; she's been introduced today as "Dave's friend," "Davey's girl" and even once, "Emily almost-Rossi" so she just smiles politely. "Yes, I am."

The woman nods and offers a hand. "Hi. I'm Maria."

"Emily Prentiss."

Maria nods as if she already knew this. "Too much for you in there?"

Emily gives a small, nervous, laugh. "I've been inside most of the day and thought a little air would be good." While she knows she's not the best at social interaction, all of Emily's alarms are going off. The woman is smiling, but it's stiff and nervous.

Emily takes a breath and studies the woman in front of her. Her eyes keep darting to the door, but her stance isn't aggressive. She keeps smoothing her hands down her slacks and is fidgeting with her blouse. She's telegraphing anxiety more than aggression.

Emily tilts her head and swallows her own nervousness. "I have to admit to not having grasped all the names and relationships. Are you a friend of the family?"

The woman gives a short, sharp laugh. "I don't think I qualify for that." Maria shakes her head. "You must not have been around long enough to have gotten all the ex-wife stories."

It takes less than a second for Maria's words to sink in and Emily feels her eyes go wide. "Oh."

Both of Maria's hands go up in a defensive gesture. "I'm not here to cause a scene or make trouble." Her lip quirks. "I'll leave that to one of the others. I just came by to offer my condolences. I wasn't expecting there to be so many people here." She offers a less than steady smile. "I was just waiting for the crowd to thin out a little so I could speak to Dave and his sisters."

Emily hadn't thought of this and knows her face must reflect how lost she is. "I'm sorry..."

Maria shakes her head. "Look, it's not like there's a handbook that tells you what to say to your boyfriend's ex at his mother's wake. If I had any class at all I would have left you alone."

There's a small, almost gentle, smile on Maria's face and Emily thinks that, despite her self-deprecation, she has a lot of class. It doesn't mean Emily has a better idea about what to say to her though. "Do you, uh, you live close by?"

"Princeton." She gives a careless shrug. "It's not next door, but it's not a bad drive either." Some of Maria's tension seems to have fled now that Emily knows who she is and that is helping to alleviate Emily's anxiety.

There's a riot of thought going on in Emily's head, social politeness warring with unbridled curiosity. It doesn't matter that she doesn't have the right to ask any questions; they are lining up, one behind the other in her mind. Her manners, thankfully, don't let her ask any of them and she goes for innocuous instead. "Are you coming to the service tomorrow?"

Maria shakes her head. "My son's high school does a summer soccer league and there's a game tomorrow afternoon. There's no way I'd make it back in time."

Her grasp on the time line of Dave's marriages is sketchy at best, but she's sure the third wife wouldn't have had time to have a child that would be high school age. So, Maria is either wife number one or wife number two.

Emily is reaching for small talk, trying to find something to say that's appropriate or doesn't sound overly curious. "How many children do you have?"

When Maria smiles, it's genuine. "Five. Four boys and a girl. One in college, three in high school, one in middle school."

Emily smiles. "That's quite a range."

Maria laughs a little. "It's enough to make me question my own sanity some days." Then she grimaces and shakes her head. "Look, don't feel like you have to stand here and talk to me. I just really came to pay my respects. Angela wasn't always my biggest fan when Dave and I were married, but later, after everything was said and done, I came to see her to make amends and she was so..." Maria stops and swallows hard. It takes a few seconds of blinking before she starts again. "I don't know how to put it other than she taught me more about forgiveness than I deserved to know at the time." She gives a little nod as if she's satisfied with that explanation. "She was a great lady, and the world is a little smaller without her in it."

"I didn't know her that well," Emily confesses. "But from all of the stories I'm hearing, I had gathered..."

"Oh, wait. Here comes the cavalry." Maria nods to the back door where Tony is standing. He spots Maria and Emily standing next to each other and his eyes widen a little. "He'll come save us before we have a chance to bond over stories of how bad Dave snores when he's had too much to drink or something." Her tone is both accepting and amused, but Emily feels a sharp pinch in the center of her chest at the reminder that she has no real intimate connection with Dave and this very nice woman, who has braved a potentially awkward situation to offer her sympathy, is deferring to her as if she does.

In the meantime, they both watch as Tony says something to someone over his shoulder and steps out on to the patio, making a beeline for them. There's no hesitation as he wraps Maria in a gentle hug and kisses her cheek. "Hey, you. It's been years." He looks at her face. "How you been?"

Maria's smile is a little shaky. "Good. I've been good."

Casually, he throws an arm across Emily's shoulders in a friendly way. "You met Emily?"

"Yeah, yeah." Maria blows out a breath that sounds a little exasperated to Emily. "She's a nice girl. Better than the last one."

"An untrained monkey with a drug problem would have been better than the last one," he says, then his eyes widen again. "Maria..."

Maria gives a small, snorty laugh and holds up a hand. "S'okay, Tony." She inclines her head towards Emily. "I'm sure Emily is better than that."

Tony's arm squeezes Emily's shoulder. "Of course she is; White Bread here is at least as good as a trained monkey."

Maria sputters as Emily gives Tony a light elbow to the side. "You always were a sweet talker, Anthony."

"It's a gift," he agrees as he rubs dramatically at the offended spot on his ribs. "The kids doing okay?"

Again, Maria's smile turns soft and genuine. "Yeah. Jacob's at Columbia, and Bobby's a senior this year, can you believe it?"

"No." Tony shakes his head. "It's not my own kids that make me feel old, it's other people's."

Maria turns to address Emily. "Tony was our lawyer when my husband and I adopted our first three." She gives a little wink. "The other two were international or he would have delivered all five of my kids."

"Thank God it was only on paper." The sound of Dave's voice surprises Emily; she'd been so intent on observing the interaction between Maria and Tony she hadn't been watching the door.

"No argument from me," Tony says lightly.

Emily watches as Dave captures Maria's hands, leans forward and kisses both her cheeks. "Hiya, kid."

"Davey." Maria's eyes fill with tears. "I just wanted to come pay my respects. Hope that's okay."

Dave gives her hands a little shake conveying something between reassuring and _don't be silly_. "Of course it's okay. I appreciate it." He tilts his head a little. "You look good."

Dropping his hands, Maria nods, still obviously fighting tears. "So do you." She clears her throat and darts a glance at Emily, then back to Dave. "Well, not bad for an old man, anyway."

Dave grins and reaches out to draw Emily towards him. "This is Emily."

"We met," Maria nods. "She didn't run screaming, which I took as a good sign."

"Not that amazing," Dave chuckles. "Especially since she'd already met Tony."

"Hey!" Tony blusters loudly, getting the tension-breaking laugh Dave was obviously going for.

"Come see my sisters." His voice is gentle and coaxing.

Emily clearly sees a bit of nervousness slide back over Maria's face but she nods anyway. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Dave tries to bring Emily with them as they move towards the door, but she shakes her head. "No, you go. I'm going to stay here."

The men exchange a look; Dave inclines his head and Tony gives a slight nod. "Yeah, White Bread is going to tell me how to make her sauce."

Dave opens the door for Maria. "You know if she really liked you, she'd just make it for you."

"Told you so." Tony grumps as the other two go into the house. When the door closes, he turns to Emily. "You okay?"

"Yes." Emily fights the urge to roll her eyes. "She's nice."

"She is," he agrees. "Wasn't always like that, but it's not my story to tell."

Every inch Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss's daughter, Emily raises an aristocratic eyebrow at him. "Did I ask you?"

He looks nonplussed for a moment, then chortles. "No, White Bread, you did not. I apologize."

Still channeling her mother's regal carriage, Emily lifts her nose slightly and sniffs. "That's Miss White Bread to you."

Emily isn't sure if it's a sense of chivalry or under Dave's unspoken orders, but Tony sits with her outside until Joe appears holding a baby that looks so much like a miniature version of him it startles a laugh out of Emily. "See why she named him after me?" he asks, grinning. The baby just blinks at Emily and sticks his fingers in his mouth.

Tony grunts. "She should have named one of the other kids after you...one who looks like you, one with your name. Would have had two that had to claim you then."

Joe shifts the baby to his other arm. "You're just jealous none of your grandkids are named after you."

"I don't have any grandkids," Tony reminds him.

"Then you're just jealous." Joe smiles as the baby reaches towards Emily. "Look at that, already hitting on the ladies." He quirks an eyebrow at her and she holds out her arms.

Emily hasn't had a lot to do with babies. She's good with kids and teenagers, but she hasn't been around many babies. Still, she knows how to hold one, though her grip is a little more careful, maybe a little tighter than the relaxed grip his grandfather had on him. Emily is surprised by the solid weight of him in her hands; he's heavier than he looks.

The baby looks at her with dark, solemn eyes, even his expression a perfect replica of his grandfather's and Emily laughs again. Young Joey seems to approve of her laugh and gives a little one of his own, the high pitched baby giggle making all three adults smile. "Oh, you're a charmer," Emily says. Joey, in answer, makes a grab for her earring. She's grateful she's not wearing hoops as the baby's damp fingers close over her earlobe.

"All right, Romeo." Joey's mother appears beside her father and begins prying the tiny digits off of Emily's ear. "Let's call it a night. Aunt Emily is spoken for, and it's way past your bedtime."

Emily feels the now familiar burst of guilt, but then pushes it aside. This is the situation, there's no way to change people's assumptions and it's not going to last forever. She supposes when this is all over and the book is done and they stop seeing her at Dave's house on the Skype calls they'll assume the two of them broke up. She has the small, evil thought _I hope they blame Dave_ as Baby Joey is lifted out of her arms by his mother.

"Yeah," Joe says, running a large hand over the baby's head. "It's past my bedtime, too. I need to get these people outta my house."

"It's not as crowded in there now," Gina informs him. "Lots of people have left. I just saw Uncle Dave walking Maria to her car."

Joe looks towards Tony sharply. "Maria is here?"

Tony rolls his eyes and when he speaks his voice is full of dry sarcasm. "Yeah, she and White Bread went ten rounds out here on the patio. You shoulda seen it." He throws an arm across Emily's shoulders again. "Emily won, so Maria has to take Dave and we get to keep our girl."

Both Joe and Gina laugh a little, which causes the baby to giggle again and bounce his little body within his mother's arms.

"See?" Joe asks. "Even the baby knows it's a good thing we get to keep Emily."

Emily snorts, and even though she liked Maria and there had been no animosity, she's incredibly grateful for Tony's humor and support. This whole situation was one endless opportunity for awkwardness and embarrassment, but Dave's family has done nothing but make her feel welcome and comfortable. But she does feel the need to clarify. "Maria was really nice."

"Yeah." Joe tilts his head, looking at her as though he's trying to fathom how much she knows of the story just from looking at her. "I haven't seen her a lot over the years but things seem to have turned out all right for her."

Gina shifts the baby a little higher on her hip. "Dad, I hate to interrupt the revelation of deep, dark family secrets that are, you know, nobody's business but Dave and Maria's, but I could use some help getting the monster and all his stuff to the car." Her voice is the same dry intonation Emily has heard from Rosalie and all of her sisters at some point. Emily is grateful; she certainly can't deny that she's curious about Dave and Maria, well, about Dave and any of his wives, but that's information that's too personal to find out in a casual revelation by a family member who thinks she's more than she is.

First looking at Gina, then turning to Joe, Tony raises his eyebrows. "She's got a mouth on her, that one."

Joe nods several times, lower lip extended over his upper lip. "I blame her mother."

"Preachin' to the choir, pisan. What are you gonna do?" Tony holds his hands open in a helpless gesture.

"You," Gina says as she leans down to kiss her uncle's cheek, "are gonna behave yourself. And you." She looks at her father. "Are going to help me get the four bags of clothes Aunt Sophia brought for your namesake to the car."

Joe blinks at her. "You might be bossier than your mother."

"I have an infant and haven't had caffeine in over a year. I'm not bossy, I'm tired." She gives a one-sided grin that definitely came from the Rossi side of the family. "And maybe a little cranky."

"I can help you," Emily says, standing.

"Nah. He's acting like he's being bossed around, but he told me he'd help earlier." Gina kisses Emily's cheek. "It was good to see you again, Emily. We'll see you tomorrow."

Joe and Gina head towards the front of the house and Tony allows Emily to lead him back to the kitchen where clean-up has begun in earnest. They take over at the sink, Emily washing, Tony drying and when Cheryl appears, she is given the job of putting things up. The dishes are loaded in the dishwasher until it's full, then the dishes, along with the wineglasses, are hand-washed. It's mindless, yet feels useful and Emily allows herself to be immersed in the back-and-forth between the family members: "Did Carlo show up? I didn't see him." "Yeah, he was here but he didn't stay long." "Victoria looked tired. Did she bring the new boyfriend?" "No, I think Gabriella would have shot him on sight if he'd shown up." "That bad?" "It's not good." "I didn't see Thomas, either." "He called; said Anna's ankles were too swollen to go anywhere. He sat home with her; said he'd be at the service tomorrow unless she went into labor early." "God forbid." "Tell me about it." "Do I need to get TJ from the airport tomorrow?" "Nah, Gina said she was going to get him, then go to the train station to get Paula."

Family members are moving in and out of the kitchen in a steady stream , bringing in casserole dishes, plates and wine glasses, picking up the thread of the conversations as they move through. Emily knows a few of the names, is getting a better sense of which branch of the family everyone belongs to and is only slightly confused by a few name duplications, including a 'David' who is Gabriella's oldest son. Theo smiles as he wipes down the counter by the stove. "My David, not your David. Though my David has always been David and your David is Dave or Davey."

"Except when he was in trouble." John places a heavily cheese-encrusted dish beside the sink with an apologetic look in Emily's direction. "If you want to watch him cringe, have one of his sisters address him as 'David'. Which was nothing, of course, compared to Mama Angela saying it."

Emily frowns at the dish then gives John a chagrined look. "Are you hiding any more of these out there?"

"I think that was the last of any of the dishes," Rosalie says from the kitchen doorway, she looks at the casserole dish and makes a pained face. "Don't even try to clean that tonight. Let it soak overnight." She gives Emily a one-armed hug. "We didn't want you to be here for manual labor anyway."

She hands Emily a dishtowel. "Have you and Dave even spoken to each other today?"

"Yes, of course we have." Emily dries her hands and loops the towel through one of the drawer handles as she's seen Joe do over the last two days.

Rosalie lowers her voice and leans closer. "He's in Mama's room now; you should go see him."

Emily feels her heart clench at the thought. _Oh, Dave_. She runs her fingers through her bangs. "What if he wants to be alone?"

Patting Emily's cheek, Rosalie smiles gently. "Even when you _want_ to be alone it doesn't mean that you don't _need_ to be with people who love you."

It's the same peaceful tone Emily heard from Rosalie Sunday morning; there's acceptance and wisdom there and Emily knows it's the right thing to do. Taking a shaky breath, she nods and steals out of the kitchen and down the hall to Angela Rossi's bedroom.

The furniture is dark wood, a small four-poster bed with a cheerful pink chenille bedspread, and a matching dresser and mirror. A crucifix hangs over the bed, with paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary on either side of the posts. On the bedside table there's a framed portrait of Dave's father and a photo crowded with the extended Rossi family, Angela, surrounded by her children, her sons-in-law, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren.

Dave's sitting on a ladder-back chair in a corner of the room; he looks sad and tired, but he doesn't have the same despondent look she's seen on his face a few times since Sunday morning.

"Hi." She keeps her tone soft, both wanting to be respectful and not wanting to startle him.

Looking up, he blinks, his eyes dark and mournful. "Hi. You need me?"

Emily shakes her head. "Just came to check on you."

He gives a small snort. "Rose sent you?"

Approaching slowly, Emily puts gentle fingers on his shoulder. "She told me you were here; she thought you might want some company."

"I'm not sure I'm fit company for anyone." It's his distracted tone, the one he uses with Reid when he would do anything to get Spencer to quit spewing facts and figures at him, but he's too polite to say so.

"Well, then it's a good thing I'm used to you being unfit company." She looks around for a place to sit, but the only other place is the bed.

He gives her a look, but there's no real heat to it. "Kicking a man when he's down, Prentiss?"

Inwardly she winces; he hasn't called her Prentiss off the job since Charleston. But she also knows it's just a distancing technique, deliberately being prickly and less personal to push her away. It occurs to her that if he weren't trying to push her away right now he would have stood and offered her the chair or told her it was okay to sit on his mother's bed.

And as far as she's concerned he can try that crap on someone else.

Leaning against the dresser, she quirks an eyebrow at him and he scowls at her; they're both clear about what's going on.

"I don't want to talk," he finally grumbles, looking down at the toe of his shoe as he moves the fringe on the bedspread idly back and forth with his foot.

"Didn't say you had to," she replies cheerfully.

They're silent for a bit; Emily learned very young how to be still and stay still. It's not her preferred method of resolving a situation, but sometimes it's a necessity.

Patience, she learned from her mother and reinforced in the Bureau, is not a quality, but a skill and like any skill, if practiced enough, it can be perfected.

Finally, Dave sighs. "Do you remember the night of the ambassador's ball?"

"Of course." Emily doesn't change her stance.

"You remember when I told you you weren't a pain in the ass?" His lips twitch. "I lied. You really are."

"Ah, well." She tilts her head. "Your memory is a trifle faulty. You didn't say I wasn't a pain in the ass, you said I was your favorite pain in the ass."

"You are that." He sighs, stands and holds out his hand. "Let's go to bed."

Her stomach gives a tiny little flip at how intimate that sounds, but she keeps her face impassive and nods. "Yeah, let's." She slips her hand in his, grateful for the little squeeze he gives as their fingers entwine.

He lets her have the bathroom first, then he showers.

She's on her side facing him when he slides between the sheets. Evidently some of the lights in the backyard are still on, and the light floats through the white sheers covering their bedroom's windows, giving everything a slightly luminescent glow. It makes it easier to see him; she can't see the look in his eyes, but she can see that he's awake and knows he could see that she is as well if he were looking at her. But he's not; he's on his back, staring at the ceiling.

It's Dave, so she really shouldn't be surprised when he starts speaking without preamble. "Maria was my second wife." He folds his hands over his chest, interlocking his fingers. "My first marriage was a teenage mistake and lasted less than a year. I went home to Commack when I mustered out of the Marines, helped Mama take care of Pop at the last. I got recruited by the Bureau, went to DC, started building a career." He moves his head to glance at her briefly then looks back to the ceiling. "Maria was an interpreter for the Bureau, Italian and Spanish." He frowns at the ceiling. "I don't even remember how we met."

Giving a little shrug, he continues. "We dated for awhile, off and on. We'd break up, see other people and then get back together. After a few years it just seemed like the natural thing to do, get married. We were good for a couple of years, everything was fine."

There's a slight pause and Emily can almost _feel_ there's something he doesn't want to say. "She...we decided it was time to start a family but, you know, it didn't happen right off like we thought it would. Then I was starting the BAU and I was traveling more and more and she was more and more unhappy."

His fingers steeple up, then flatten again. "I agreed to the fertility consultations and we did the tests and when the tests came back it turns out she had some medical issues that were going to make it impossible for her to conceive."

Emily feels a tumble of emotion, a mix of empathy and jealousy roll over her. The irony isn't lost on her either. Right around the time she was terminating an unwanted pregnancy Dave and his wife were finding out a family wasn't in the cards for them.

"We decided to adopt, filled out all the paperwork; but...there was a case...a serial in San Diego. It was one of the first cases where the BAU was called in near the beginning and I was gone for weeks. I missed an appointment with the adoption agency and a home visit with the social worker." This time when he turns to look at her, he doesn't look away. "I knew I was missing the agency appointment but the home visit was a surprise."

Shaking his head, he gives a sigh. "Maria...well, it wasn't pretty. She said it was obvious I didn't really want a family with her." His mouth tightens. "She said a lot of other things, too. But, you know, I knew she was upset and I thought I'd let her calm down and we'd talk about a private adoption."

He turns his gaze back to the ceiling. "Gideon and I were working a serial rapist in Orlando when I got the call she'd been in an accident. I flew home right away; her blood alcohol level was borderline, but nobody else was hurt so they didn't pursue it. But the accident messed up her back and she was in a lot of pain."

Emily watches as his chest rises with a deep inhalation, then falls with the slow release. It's almost as if she can hear the memories in his head, ticking like a car engine as it cools.

The light bleeding into the window is suddenly halved, then quartered as the lights from the backyard go out. The silence seems heavier somehow in the darkness until he speaks again.

"Long story short, she was already drinking pretty heavily; then she got hooked on the pain meds."

Emily sees his head turn and knows he's looking at her, but she can't see him anymore, the shadows between them are too deep, but the pain and guilt are obvious in his voice when he tells her, "I was gone all the damn time, I didn't see it, I didn't do anything to help her."

Blindly, she reaches for him, her hand falling across his chest, reaching for his hands. "It's not your fault, Dave."

"Bullshit." His voice is bitter and his body is tense, hard against her touch.

"Unless you put the bottle and the pills in her hand, it's not your fault." Her tone brooks no argument, but she doesn't feel any lessening in his body's tension.

"She..." Dave swallows heavily. "She did things because of the addiction I know she never would have done otherwise. Tony, God love him, spotted the trouble and talked to me." He gives a humorless bark of laughter. "Trust me that was not a conversation anyone wanted to be a part of."

Emily can only imagine.

He's lost to memory for a moment then he just sounds sad as he finishes the story. "Anyway, we got her into rehab. She cleaned up, but it was too late for the marriage."

"Dave." Emily isn't sure what she wants to say; what she could say that would make a difference.

Suddenly, he turns his hand to grasp hers and his voice, when he speaks, is softer. "I don't think we would have lasted anyway, to be honest. Maria's a good woman, but we weren't strong enough to last through all the different things that were being thrown at us, even without the drugs and alcohol. But I should have done better."

Rising up on her elbow, she tries desperately to see his expression. "You couldn't have known. We've seen addicts, Dave; they're really good at hiding their disease."

He shakes his head and turns on his side, her hand still grasped in his. "The thing is, Em-" She always gets a bit of a secret thrill when he calls her Em. "-That old saw about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions? It's true. In my head, I'm a good man. I intended to go to Gideon's wife's funeral, I intended to spend another day with my dad...and all intentions to the contrary, I never did. I...every time I got married I intended to be a good husband. And I just wasn't."

She feels his breath skating across her knuckles and almost unconsciously moves a little closer. "Who thinks they're a superhero now? Dave, you can't blame yourself for everything you never did. You're human, we all miss things. Think of all the things you _did_ do."

"I know my missing the occasional birthday or phone call doesn't make me a bad person. None of it caused any harm, not overtly anyway, but they left me with a lot of 'should haves' that turned into a festering pile of regret." He sighs and it's sad and tired. "That is its own special Hell. Not the Hell of sin and bad behavior but the Hell of missed opportunity to let someone around me know I cared, I thought about them, they weren't alone. And Maria is the biggest skeleton on that pile."

"Dave, you can't blame yourself." She squeezes his fingers. "You just can't."

He moves his head, though she's not sure if it's in a negating move or if he's simply nestling deeper into the pillow. "I don't blame myself for her addictions, but I wish she hadn't had to sink so low. I wish I'd been a better man even if I couldn't be a better husband."

"David Rossi." She scoots a little closer, until their joined hands are the only thing keeping them from being chest to chest. "How could you be any better? You are the best man I know."

Whether her eyes have finally adjusted to less light or his eyes are overly bright, Emily can see his eyes are moist. His voice is thick as he responds, "You should get out more."

She sighs. "I really should."

Giving a quiet laugh, he slings an arm over her hip. "Go to sleep."

"You go to sleep." The soft cotton of his pajamas is skin warmed and pleasant against her palm as she gives him a light tap on the arm.

"Emily?"

Expecting a sharp retort or a set-up for a good-natured insult, she answers cautiously. "Yeah?"

"You're my best friend."

Emily feels a little teary, surprised, touched and very much in love. She can feel the thud of his heart beneath her hand; he's so close she can feel his breath against her cheek and she wants nothing more than for him to lean forward, close the small distance between them and kiss her.

He runs his thumb gently over her knuckles, then back in the opposite direction. Her heart is thumping in her ears and she wonders if he can hear it. The silence between them is heavy and a little breathless until he brings her hand to his lips, placing a soft, chaste kiss on the back. "I...it means a lot to me. Your friendship." His fingers tighten over hers briefly. "I...I just want you to know how much I appreciate you being here now."

The sudden realization hits that he's telling her friendship is all this is. While he wouldn't share a bed with Hotch or kiss his hand, it's the same type of friendship to him, nothing more. Her throat is burning but she's still proud of her even tone when she answers, "That's what friends are for." If her voice is a little small, it's easy to blame the night and the dark.

"Yeah." He pulls her hand back to his chest. "Goodnight, Em."

"Goodnight, Dave." She swallows against the thickness in her throat, grateful she doesn't have to guard her expression. His breathing evens out fairly quickly but Emily remains awake until he shifts in his sleep and she can free her hand easily. She rolls away, her back facing him, full of disappointment and self-castigation. _You knew better._

It's not that she expected him to have suddenly fallen in love with her. They're friends, of course they're friends; if he felt something more - well, Rossi had never been shy about going after what he wanted. She's disappointed in both the situation and herself...she hadn't realized how much hope she had allowed herself, how spending so much time with him and being a part of his family had seduced her into a false sense of the two of them being more than they are.

Reminding herself how they got to this point, she hates herself a little when she realizes she's feeling sorry for herself when he's just lost his mother.

_Okay._ She clamps down on the desire to cry. _Okay. I can do this, I can be a friend._

But her chest aches for hours as she listens to his breath in the dark until sleep finally forces her down.

The feel of a hand on her foot startles her awake. The sun is up and so is Rossi; he's dressed, standing at the foot of the bed, his hand on her ankle.

"Good morning." He offers her a small smile, releasing her ankle. "I wasn't trying to rattle you awake."

Glancing at the time, she grimaces. It's half-past six and the last time she remembers looking at the clock it had been after two. Her eyes are filled with grit and her heart is still sore. "Morning," she replies, not quite willing to concede the "good" part.

"Father Frank is hearing confession for the family this morning; Rose instructed me to invite you along." He smoothes a hand over his beard.

"Uh," she replies. If she's going to receive communion, then she has to go to confession. _Oh, this will be fun,_ she tells herself sourly as she struggles against the covers and gravity to sit up. "What time?"

Dave clears his throat and she looks down to see her camisole has twisted and half of her right breast is exposed. Impatiently, she jerks the material back into place and rolls her eyes. The snarkier part of her brain wants to know what difference it makes if she's flashing a little boob at him, it's not like he's interested. _Okay,_ her inner monologue concedes, _that's more bitter than snarky._

He doesn't seem to know where to look when he says, "We'll leave about quarter to eight." Emily is pretty sure she hates him this morning. She decides she should write a book: _Curing Unrequited Love through Sleep Deprivation_.

"Yeah, okay." She pushes her hair back from her face. "I can be ready before then."

"Okay." His eyes dart toward her and he must decide her modesty is intact once again because he doesn't look away. "There's coffee downstairs."

Barely resisting the urge to say, _You mean where they keep the coffeepot?_ she just nods. "I'll be down after I shower."

"All right." He looks as though there's something else he'd like to say, but when she raises an eyebrow at him he shakes his head and heads towards the door. "See you in a bit."

She feels better after her shower; not great, but it's enough of an improvement that she's sort of sorry for being so grumpy with Dave. As she applies her make-up, she has a rather stern conversation with herself about it being a rough day and her bruised heart is nothing compared to what Dave and his family are going through. It's not Dave's fault she's in love with him; though there's a rather surly part of her brain that insists it is indeed his fault, he shouldn't be so charming and talented and sexy. But she's almost positive that part of her brain is where her inner 14-year-old lives, so she ignores it.

So, it's going to be a hard day and despite her complete and utter stupidity in falling in love with him, she is, above and beyond everything else, his friend. When they get back to DC tomorrow she can start putting her heart back together, figure everything out, get some distance. But today...today she is here to support and help and that's what she's going to do.

The smell of coffee bolsters her even more as she comes through the kitchen door.

"Good morning, Emily."

Rosalie kisses her cheek while Joe pours her a cup of coffee and Cheryl hugs her and Emily feels her heart soften. Whatever happens, she wants to maintain these relationships. It might be a little difficult, depending on what Dave tells them, but she's never known anything worth having that didn't take a little work. Plus, he's told her more than once he's grateful to her for taking an interest in Cheryl, so he shouldn't object to them keeping in touch.

Joe sets her coffee within reach and pulls a box of Splenda down from the cabinet. Emily smiles her thanks and fixes her coffee.

The mood in the house is a little more solemn this morning and it looks as if Rosalie has already been crying. Emily leans against the kitchen counter beside Dave, offering him a tentative smile, a silent apology for her grouchy attitude when he'd come to wake her up. The smile he gives her in return is grateful, if a little hesitant.

"Joe, I still don't hear him." Rosalie is at the kitchen door, intent and listening. "Cheryl, are you sure he heard you? We gotta leave in fifteen minutes."

Cheryl is pouring cereal into a bowl, the small pieces making a musical _pings_ as they hit the china. "Nonna, I swear he said he was getting up."

Rosalie sighs and Joe puts his coffee cup down. "I'll go."

"Thank you," she says, leaning against his arm briefly. "You're a good man."

"Yeah, you remember that the next time I forget to take out the trash." Joe kisses the top of Rosalie's head and leaves the kitchen.

As is the way of the teenage boy, Michael had gone back to sleep and is rousted from his bed by his grandfather who allows him a five minute shower and ten minutes to dress, comb his hair and brush his teeth. Rosalie pronounces his first outfit unacceptable and sends him back upstairs to change. Cheryl has choice words about his personality and IQ, while Rosalie tells her to mind her manners and asks if she has her rosary.

Dave and Emily stand side by side, sipping coffee, staying out of the familial fray until they leave for the church.

St. Gabriel's is bright, light pouring in from dozens of windows, clear, glazed panes around the perimeter of the ceiling and beautifully ornate stained glass illustrating the stations of the cross slightly above eye-level. The pews, rails and altar are constructed of gleaming blond wood and the smell of linseed oil and lemons hangs in the air. Emily grew up visiting churches in Europe and Asia and, despite her bad experience in Italy she's always found churches to be peaceful places. She doesn't attend Mass all that often but she does manage to make it to confession on a regular basis, thanks to her mother whose idea of a fun Saturday in DC is confession, lunch and shopping.

Gabriella and Theo, along with their youngest son, are leaving as they arrive. There are brief hugs and whispered, "We'll see you later." Quietly they enter, observing the small rituals of holy water and genuflection, kneeling and prayer. John is seated beside a young woman Emily recognizes as one of his daughters.

The adults remain on the kneeling bench, their rosaries moving through their fingers, but Cheryl and Michael seat themselves on the pew after a short amount of time in prayer. When Sophia emerges into the sanctuary a few minutes after their arrival, Father Frank's arm is around her shoulders.

Though Emily had been hoping for at least a show of anonymity, she's not surprised to see the personal contact and she's fairly certain the door leads to an open "Reconciliation" room instead of the dark confessional of her first communion. _This is going to suck_ she thinks. Father Frank is essentially a part of the Rossi family and he was always going to know who she was anyway, but she'd been hoping for the small dark space to at least hide her humiliation. Her only hope is to hit the highlights and avoid specifics.

Sophia's family rises to meet her and Father Frank looks expectantly at Rosalie's family. Emily hears Michael sigh from behind her then watches as the teenager slouches toward Father Frank. The priest puts his hand on Michael's shoulder and closes the door.

Emily isn't sure she would qualify as a good Catholic, but she does pay attention to the ritual and tries not to be disrespectful. Oddly, it's been easier since Matthew's death. Father Silvano might be one of the problems with the Catholic Church, but there are good things about it to, like Father Davison and Father Frank, the way Dave retains a faith in God even through seeing some of the most horrific things mankind has to offer.

But right now she feels like she's cheating, because she cannot even begin to concentrate on her prayers. She keeps starting an _Our Father_ and her thoughts about confessing to Father Frank keep derailing her. Finally, she decides to give up and rises from the bench to sit. One of the preparations for confession is contemplating one's sins; she feels well-qualified on that front. She feels a touch on her shoulder and turns to see Cheryl smiling at her. The girl leans forward, "Waiting is the hardest part." Though her tone is hushed her grandmother looks up from her rosary with a look that clearly says she should stop talking or there will be more than confession at stake. Cheryl shrugs and leans back against the pew, but then stands immediately when Michael and Father Frank return to the sanctuary. Father Frank wraps Cheryl in a bear hug; she hugs him back and the door closes.

Dave rises from the bench and sits beside her on the pew; she remembers sitting beside him at the wedding, being slightly thrilled at the brush of his thigh against hers. It's almost difficult to trace her steps from that moment to this. Everything seemed different then, before Charleston, before she realized she was in love with him, before they were spending all their free time together. Sadness falls over her like a cloth falling over abandoned furniture; she's promised herself she'll see him through this and when she gets home she'll find a way to move on, move past it. But the truth is she doesn't want to, she doesn't want to move away from loving him. This might be hard but she'd gotten so used to being alone she'd forgotten what it was like to live for more than the next case, the next unsub, the next solve. Somehow she thinks going back to that is going to feel even more hollow than it did before.

The door opens and Cheryl comes out under Father Franks arm; he kisses her temple then looks at Emily expectantly. Sighing, Emily stands and moves forward.

"Emily." He motions her into a hallway, then immediately into a bright room. It's small enough to be considered intimate, but not so small she feels trapped. There are two chairs and a table with a Bible and a figurine of the Virgin Mother. "Please sit." He indicates one of the chairs while he takes the other one.

She sits and he looks at her expectantly. Taking a deep breath she nods and he makes the sign of the cross.

"Forgive me, Father, for I've sinned. It's been seven weeks since my last confession." Chewing on her lip, she looks up at him.

"Go on." His fingers are steepled against his chest and she feels every bit of his attention focused on her.

"I've committed the sins of lying and...and lust." Really, she didn't feel this nervous at her first confession thirty years ago.

There's no judgment in his tone when he speaks, he's simply gathering information. "How many times have you lied since your last confession?"

Emily winces. _This is where it gets sticky._

She thinks about telling Morgan she was going home one night when she was really going to Dave's, telling one of the Baltimore detectives she had a headache when she just didn't want to go for a beer with him and a few other small lies. "In word? Maybe a dozen times?"

"And in deed?"

_Crap._

"A...lot." She's sort of tries to close her eyes and still look at him at the same time. It's not working well.

Father Frank tilts his head towards her. "I appreciate that these things are difficult to quantify sometimes, but you are an intelligent, articulate professional. I think you can do better than 'a lot'."

She lets out a breath and relaxes her shoulders; really there was nothing else to do and confession is supposed to be good for the soul. "Non-stop for the past few days."

His eyes widen and his head tilts back. "I'm listening."

"Dave and I are not involved; we're not..." she starts to use the word "lovers" but decides she really can't use that to a priest, in church. "We're not a couple. We're just friends. We, we work together and we're friends and I'm helping him write a book."

Now that she's started, the whole story comes tumbling out, end over end like a rain of stones rolling down a hill, picking up speed the further they roll. "But he needed a date for Jennifer's wedding a few weeks ago and his sisters - well, Rosalie - started talking about babies and I _told_ her we were just friends but she kept on and I panicked and she said she was just yanking my chain but I still don't think she believed me. Then a serial killer drugged me and we ended up staying in Charleston and Dave talked to Cheryl on the computer and she saw we were in the same hotel room, but it was a suite...a two bedroom suite. Then when we got home he asked me to help him with the book, well, no, he asked me to help him when we were still in Charleston and I said yes, but that was before I realized I'm sort of, really, a lot, in love with him. But I'd already said I'd do the book by the time I figured it out. Some profiler I am, right? I mean I can't even figure out when I'm in love but I'd already said yes to the book so we were always at his house working on it and Cheryl and Rosalie and his mother would call and see me there." She makes herself stop talking to take a breath, though it ends up sounding more like a gasp.

Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she continues. "Then Rosalie couldn't get him when Mama Angela died and she called me instead, but we were in Baltimore and he'd been up over forty-eight hours so Hotch, that's our Unit Chief , Aaron Hotchner, said that I should drive him and Dave said Rosalie said I should come. So, I drove him but Cheryl showed us to the guest room and there was only one bed and he said he'd explain to Rosalie, but then I thought, no, that would be too awkward and he didn't need anything else to cause him stress. So I told him, I told him we were adults and we could share a bed with nothing happening. And nothing has happened. Except everybody treating me like I'm a part of the family and me sort of wanting to jump him even though his mother just died and he doesn't seem to want to jump me back."

Once it's all out, she takes another deep breath and looks at Father Frank. He's biting his lip and his eyes are shining and she has the impression she has just made a tremendous fool of herself. But, strangely, she feels better.

Father Frank rubs a hand across his forehead, obscuring his face for a moment. "Well, that explains why fornication didn't make the list." His voice cracks on the word "list" and Emily's mouth drops open.

"Are you _laughing_?"

Father Frank shakes his head in the negative, though his broad shoulders are clearly shaking with laughter.

Indignant doesn't even begin to cover it. "You are laughing! At my confession!"

"We call it the Rite of Reconciliation now." A giggle escapes Father Frank and it reminds Emily of Baby Joey's giggle from the previous night. The sound is completely at odds with the man's size and demeanor. "Though that's not a confession so much as it's a comedy of errors."

The only error Emily thinks has occurred is her decision to come to confession. "This is...the lying and...the lusting and you're _laughing_?"

He giggles again and the sound is so incongruent, so childlike that, despite her indignation and humiliation, she feels her own lips quirk in a half smile.

He draws in a breath and waves a hand. "You haven't lied to anyone by acting in this way. You've been a comfort and solace to the family. You are not responsible for their assumptions. This is, at the most, a venial sin, and I don't even see it as such."

"But the other?" She really doesn't want to say "lusting" again, especially knowing Dave is going to be coming in to this same room shortly.

His posture straightens and he clasps his hands in front of his chest. "For the times you've lied in word, are you truly sorry?"

Her answer is automatic. "Yes, Father."

"Say one Hail Mary for each lie you spoke and you are absolved of the sin." He makes the sign of the cross.

"Thank you, Father." She shifts in her chair. "But the other?"

His face is open and kind. "You are a human being, Emily. God knit you within the womb of your mother, with all of the frailties of the human body and the potential of the soul. All human beings lust. God knows your heart, Emily. God knows you to be a woman in love, but a noble one."

"And this whole thing...with the family and the comedy and the bed?"

"You're good," Father Frank chokes out, then dissolves into another fit of the giggles while Emily rolls her eyes.

She's really trying to whip up some more indignation but the sight of the priest nearly doubled over, wheezing out laughter makes it impossible. And, really, the whole thing _is_ ridiculous. She hasn't done anything wrong, even though she feels guilty for misleading Dave's family.

With less than gracious patience, she waits for the giggle fit to pass, but every time he begins to sober and looks at her, he starts all over again.

"You know," she says finally, "I get that you probably don't get a lot of entertainment in here, but, hello? Rite of Reconciliation? Sacrament of the Church?"

He wipes his eyes with a large hand. "Joy is its own sacrament."

Eying him speculatively, she crosses her arms over her chest. "That sounds like something you made up to excuse laughing at my confession."

"One of the perks of the job." His smile is wide and beautiful and she can't help the one she gives in response. As much as she'd love to remain indignant, she really can't. The whole thing felt so large in her head, the guilt and the want becoming so much bigger than they actually are and, thankfully, Father Frank's laughter has given her perspective. She's also not blind to the knowledge that she has been unable to enjoy the feelings of belonging and acceptance without feeling like an impostor; she feels like rolling her eyes again, but this time at herself.

"So, that's it?" she questions.

"Do your penance and that's it." He nods.

Waving an airy hand, she shifts in the chair. "You call that penance? Please. I lived in Rome as a teenager. We're talking epic penance." It's true and that was before the abortion.

Putting his hands on his knees, Father Frank leans forward, still smiling, but a little more serious. "In the absence of epic penance, then, may I offer you a blessing?"

"Thank you, Father."

Emily bows her head and feels his large hand come to rest lightly against her hair.

"May God our Father grant you His consolation and His strength, and help you to accept His will and praise His Holy Name forever and ever. Amen." His thumb traces a cross on her forehead.

"Amen," she echoes, crossing herself.

He walks her out of the room and across the hall to the sanctuary door. Once the door is open, he leans forward and enfolds her in a warm hug. The embrace is a comfort for a peaceful moment, then she hears another one of his giggles and he asks, "Does this mean we're engaged?"

She's fairly certain the look she gives him would have burned an ordinary mortal, but it simply causes him to laugh harder, though it appears he's trying to be quiet about it. Nonetheless, Dave, Rosalie, Joe, Michael and Cheryl are all staring at them. Emily feels her face flame as Dave walks toward them; he looks at her inquiringly, but she holds up a hand and stalks past him, back to their pew.

Father Frank throws a brotherly arm across Dave's shoulders, guiding him into the hall and closing the door behind them. Joe and Rosalie give her looks that defy description and her cheeks heat even more. Lowering the kneeling bench, Emily situates herself and begins her penance.

When Dave returns, he looks even more as though he'd love to know what happened during her confession, but she studiously ignores him, reminding herself her sins, both real and imagined, are safe with Father Frank.

Joe follows Dave and Rosalie goes last and it seems a very short time before they're on their way back to Joe and Rosalie's house.

"Emily?" Cheryl leans forward from the third seat of the SUV. "What did you say to Father Frank? I've never seen him laugh so hard."

"I'd like to know that myself." Dave is staring at her profile but she refuses to look at him.

Rosalie turns in her seat. "You don't ask questions like that."

"But, Nonna, he was doubled over." Cheryl is earnest and indignant and giving that damned cocky Rossi grin. "She broke Father Frank!"

Emily finally loses the fight; turning toward the window, she covers her mouth and laughs silently until they're back at the house.

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

**Pairing:** Emily Prentiss/David Rossi  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Season 5  
**Rating: ** Teen/FRT/PG13

**Author's Notes:** This is the end...Chapter 10 followed by a rather fluffy epilogue. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed.

This fic is the wonderful **wojelah**'s **help_haiti** fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan. I'm so grateful and amazed she chose to bid on my fic.

If there are words to describe all that **smacky30** and **smittywing** have done for me during this. I don't know what they are.

**smacky30** has been endlessly patient and rolled her eyes a minimum of times when I was being insecure and neurotic. She always supports me, but she doesn't tolerate any crap from me, either. She corrects my grammar and punctuation. She is an amazing person and an incredible friend.

**smittywing** has been an amazing cheerleader over the past 6 months. I have learned so much from her from under using the comma to my misuse of that/who. I know writing is a continual process of learning and growing. I absolutely cannot imagine a better teacher or friend.

I am blessed beyond all measure to have these women in my life.

* * *

The rest of the morning passes without much incident, other than Rosalie and Joe busily directing the caterers who will be handling the reception after the service and a minor meltdown by Cheryl over being out of an essential hair product. Emily doesn't bother with the calm reasoning Dave tries to use on the teenager about whether said hair care product is really necessary. Grabbing the keys, Emily pulls the girl away from the logical arguments being presented to her and runs her to the closest drugstore. They're back in less than forty minutes, but it's enough to cause Emily to be a little rushed in her own preparations.

All too soon, it's time to return to the church for Angela Rossi's funeral Mass.

There are already several cars in the parking lot and the abundance of flowers in the church is breathtaking.

Emily is surprised to see Jimmy Davison standing beside Father Frank, both dressed in black copes, the vestments seeming to add weight to the solemn expressions on both their faces. The greetings are warm but somber, and Emily, along with Rosalie and Cheryl, receives a hug from Father Davison and a kiss on the cheek from Father Frank.

The family congregates in a small room located off the church's vestibule. It's crowded with the children, grandchildren and quite a few of the older great-grandchildren of Angela Rossi. The siblings are seated together on two sofas on the far side of the room and the rest of the family fans out from them. They're all in church clothes, voices hushed, faces solemn, but there are still hugs, bright eyes, smiles and the occasional quiet laugh.

_So much life,_ Emily thinks, throat suddenly thickening.

If the measure of a successful life is the number of people who love and will miss you, Emily can't help but think Mama Angela's life is one of the most successful she's ever seen. It's also nice to see the sadness is not overwhelming, and know that everyone is trying to follow Rosalie's wish that this be a celebration of a woman's life. Emily knows she, of all the people in this room, has the least connection with Angela. But from the last few days of hearing the stories, from the lioness of a mother to the completely devoted wife to the gentle matriarch of her large, boisterous family, Emily knows Dave's mother's life was rich and full. Not without pain, of course, but well-lived and fully loved.

As the thought passes through her mind, Dave looks up and meets her eyes. He's dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt and plain black tie. His ensemble is completely traditional, very simple and reminds her how devastatingly handsome he is. He tilts his head as he looks at her, a silent communication, a spillover from the job, but he's asking without words, "Are you okay?" She lets a soft smile touch her lips and gives a little nod in his direction.

Then it's time for the family to be seated in the church. Rosalie threads her fingers through Joe's and leads the family toward the door of the sanctuary where her mother's casket waits. Emily expects Dave to walk with Teresa, but the nun follows Sophia and John as Dave steps to Emily's side and takes her hand, his thumb pressing against her palm. Emily tries not to look surprised as Francesca and Tony, then Gabriella and Theo, follow Teresa. Dave gives Emily a sad, small smile as Angela's grandchildren and great-grandchildren begin lining up behind them.

The priests approach the casket, bless it with holy water and Angela Rossi's children follow her into church one last time.

As Emily walks up the aisle with Dave, she sees several faces she recognizes from the day before. About halfway up, she catches sight of a red head adorned by a black pillbox hat with black netting. A quick sideways glance confirms it is Garcia, flanked by JJ and Morgan, with Hotch and Reid on either end. Her first instinct is to withdraw her hand from Dave's grasp, but she clamps down on the urge before her fingers do more than twitch. Instead, she gives a slight lift of her chin to acknowledge their presence and walks on, keeping her eyes on Theo's broad shoulders and her hand in Dave's.

The number of people and the excess of flowers make the sanctuary look different to her eyes than it did this morning. It's still as bright, it still gleams, but the mingling floral scents tinge the air and there's a sense of hushed but expectant energy that hadn't been present just a few hours ago.

The mass itself is sadly familiar, and passes as usual with spiritual support for the family and honor to the body. For all she knows the words and meanings behind the ritual, they have greater impact sitting here with this family. Dave's face is expressionless, but his eyes are bleak and though each of his sisters appears serene, there are a few quiet tears. When Father Frank's voice cracks as he says the final Kyrie, Emily sees Dave swallow as he blinks several times.

The cemetery is on the church grounds and the burial rites are performed there. Emily feels an increasing sense of sadness as Father Davison and Father Frank commend Angela Rossi's soul to God and her body to the earth. Each small prayer and solemn ritual is meant to offer comfort and peace, she knows, but she feels Dave tense a little more with each one and her heart breaks for him, for all of them.

They see death every day. They're overwhelmed by it some days. They walk a line between objectivity and empathy every time they're out in the world; their jobs depend on maintaining objectivity, but their humanity depends on those flashes of empathy that bring them out of that objectivity. There are horrors and evil beyond what she imagined when she aimed for the BAU, but none of it touches her like seeing people she loves suffer through their own losses.

After the final benediction, Angela's children step forward, each placing a white rose on the coffin's lid, each bending to kiss the polished wood. They stand for a moment, the five daughters and one son, arms across each other's backs, huddling together in their grief, leaning against each other as the sun shines through the trees. Emily feels their collective pain squeezing in her chest and she can't stop her tears.

The family and most of the people who have attended the funeral head back to Rosalie and Joe's house. Dave is caught up in greeting people almost as soon as they arrive and Emily wanders, a little aimlessly, through the crowd until she spots the team tucked into a corner of the family room. Emily wonders at the flash of relief that passes through her when she moves to join them. No one has been anything but kind to her here. As a matter of fact, most of them have gone out of their way to be welcoming and considerate. Still, there's a lightening in her chest as she takes her place amongst them, grateful for JJ and Garcia's kisses to her cheek and Morgan's careless one-armed hug . Hotch looks a little more severe than usual, his face dark and pinched, but Emily is willing to bet this is the first funeral he's been to since Haley's, so that's understandable.

"How's Rossi holding up?" Morgan asks what Emily knows all of them want to.

Emily shrugs. "I think he's doing okay. I mean, it's not a picnic, but he seems to be handling it all right."

"Losing a parent is tough at any age." Garcia sighs.

"Have you seen him?" Emily knows Dave will appreciate all of them being here. The team is nearly as much family to him as the one he was born into.

"Not yet." Hotch shakes his head. "We met one of his sisters; she said she'd direct him our way. Evidently he was with an old friend."

Emily wants to ask which sister, but then decides it doesn't matter. Then she has the thought that if Dave's family starts talking to the team, somebody is going to be very confused. Having to explain the misconceptions to whichever party is most confused strikes more terror in her than the thought of confessing to Father Frank had. Suddenly, the idea of keeping Dave's family and the team apart holds all kinds of appeal for her. The less chance of humiliation the better, she decides.

Fate, of course, decides this is a good time to make Emily its personal plaything as she looks up to see Tony making his way through the crowd, carefully balancing a tray of wineglasses and water. "Yo, White Bread, you don't even make sure your friends got something to drink?"

Emily sighs. Humiliation, twelve o'clock. With a flourish of her hand, she indicates Dave's brother-in-law. "Tony Milano." And with the other, she gestures around their little group. "Aaron Hotchner. Jennifer Jaureau. Spencer Reid. Penelope Garcia. Derek Morgan."

"Thank you all for coming. I know it'll mean a lot to Dave." It's the same serious tone he used when he told her about being in AA. There is no sign of the blustering, larger-than-life Tony; in his place is a solemn family member, expressing welcome and gratitude. Each team member answers Tony with a polite murmur and Spencer does his little hand wave as Tony offers the tray to each of them. JJ, Garcia and Morgan take wine, but Hotch and Reid take water.

Tony sets the tray on a nearby table, hands a glass of wine to Emily and takes water for himself. "Aaron Hotchner. You used to be a federal prosecutor, is that right?"

Hotch's head tilts slightly, the only sign that he's surprised by the question. "It was a long time ago."

"You remember a case, would have been about eighteen years ago..." Tony pauses and looks Hotch up and down. "God, what? Were you still wearing diapers in law school?"

The tiniest ghost of a smile touches Hotch's mouth. "Sadly, no."

Tony grunts. "Yeah, you were on special assignment, assisting Kendal Crosby? The one with the kids?"

Hotch's head goes back slightly in recognition. "Finley. That was a nasty one."

"Yeah." Tony nods. "Yeah, it was." He takes a sip of wine. "I was representing the parents in the civil action against Finley's corporation. I hit the courtroom a few times; I watched your summation." He looks around the circle, inclining his head towards Hotch. "His boss broke his leg on the ski slopes the weekend before closing arguments. Aaron Hotchner here, who was just a kid then, had to do the argument. Best summation I've ever seen."

"It was a long time ago." Hotch looks a little less pinched than he did a few minutes before and Emily has the impression that under his usual stoic mask he is pleased.

"I always thought I'd see you on the Supreme Court, but I guess your career went a different path, huh?" Tony takes a sip of wine. "The parents won the civil case, too. They used some of the money for in vitro. Their twins just turned fourteen."

Hotch does smile then; it's one of his rare, wide smiles and Emily stores all of the names and small bits of information Tony provided to research the case. Or she'll just corner Tony later and ask him.

"Thank you for telling me." Hotch nods at Tony.

"It's nice to know the world turns in the other direction occasionally, isn't it?" Tony smiles. "Tell me about the work you do now."

With a conversational mastery that Emily finds enviable as well as admirable, Tony manages to draw Hotch out and involve everyone in their little circle in a series of topics that bounce from their work at the BAU, to baseball, to cooking. They're in the middle of a rather lively debate regarding chili with beans versus chili, no beans, when Dave finally makes it into the room. He hugs each of them, giving Garcia and JJ kisses on the cheek as they offer him quiet condolences.

When he releases JJ, he and Tony share a quick look and Tony gives a little nod and excuses himself. Emily watches the exchange and wonders if anyone on the team saw it; it was quick but they are profilers. Alarm bells start going off. Dave wouldn't dismiss Tony and Tony wouldn't allow himself to be dismissed. There's a tension vibrating off Dave that goes beyond grief and getting through a trying day. Something is up and she desperately wants to call him on it, but she's not going to do it in front of other people. Besides, she's not exactly sure she has the right; she's not sure where the boundaries are any more.

It's difficult, but she allows herself to be swept into the conversation. The thought niggles at the back of her mind, though. When Rosalie, Teresa and Gabriella come to introduce themselves to Dave's workmates she doesn't miss the quick, careful looks each of them give her and the niggle becomes an itch inside her brain. Whatever is going on, it definitely involves her in some way. When Francesca and Sophia find their way into the room, Francesca doesn't look at Emily and Sophia gives her a too-bright smile.

Emily Prentiss grew up in diplomatic circles and in many ways it was a terrible burden for a young child, for the weight of perfection to rest on her every minute. But in times like these, when acting as if everything is exactly as it should be when she clearly knows it's not, it is worth every moment she learned to hold her tongue, stand up straight, smile and make small talk.

Taking a deep breath, she promises herself she'll find out as soon as she's able and concentrates instead on watching the Rossi sisters charm the team. "Emily." Teresa turns to her. "Which one was the one with Davey and the strippers?"

A laugh goes up from everyone but Hotch, who looks at her incredulously. "You told that story?" His face contorts. "You told that story to _a nun_?"

Morgan snickers. "You are so busted, Prentiss."

Emily, flushing and laughing a little nervously, is stammering over an excuse when Hotch holds up a hand, only the glint in his eye letting her know he's not really upset. "You are so _fired_, Prentiss."

Snorting, Rosalie salutes Hotch with a wine glass. "All part of our evil plan to keep her here with us." She gives him a soft smile. "Thanks for letting her come with Dave. I know missing both of them leaves you shorthanded."

Hotch tilts his head and his lips lift gently, though there is a touch of sadness. "We try to support each other as much as we can. We depend on each other and family is important."

Dave doesn't say much as his sisters talk to the team. He seems distracted and Emily strengthens her resolve to discover what is going on that she doesn't know about.

Cheryl joins their group and Joe calls Rosalie to the kitchen; after that it's an ebb and flow of people into and out of the family room and the group conversation. Some are family members wanting to meet Dave's team members and others old colleagues including Max Ryan. Everyone but Emily appears to have met him before; he makes a show of shaking her hand and saying he's heard very good things about her. Emily doesn't ask for details, knowing it's probably more of a polite nothing than the actual truth. Instead she listens as Ryan regales the group with stories of young FBI hotshot David Rossi and their struggle to start the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Rossi mildly protests one or two of the stories, but both his team and his family absorb them eagerly, especially the one where Angela Rossi had taken it upon herself to feed Max after his divorce. "Every Sunday we were in town, Dave was directed to invite me over."

Dave shakes his head, his smile fond. "Mama was convinced Max was going to dry up and blow away. She was still driving then; she'd come down Saturday night, drag my sorry ass to Mass on Sunday morning then spend the rest of the day cooking for Max."

Ryan laughs. "She'd send me home loaded down with leftovers; I don't think she ever left Dave any." He smiles at Emily. "I'm fairly certain he used to pray for a case just so he wouldn't have to watch his dishes walk out the door."

Rossi's eyes narrow. "I think you still have some of my Tupperware."

The sun is beginning to settle in the western sky, and the harshest edge has worn off the heat when Max Ryan says he's not as young as he used to be and needs to hit the road. Hotch follows suit and the team says their goodbyes. The crowd has thinned to mostly family and closest friends and the caterers are taking down the tents in the backyard and packing up their equipment. Somewhere between bidding the team goodbye and grabbing a bottle of water from one of the beverage tubs, Emily has lost track of Dave.

She moves from room to room, hoping to find him and find out what happened this afternoon. In the living room, Gina and Rosalie both lift fingers to their lips in a signal for quiet before she can ask if they've seen Dave. Emily turns slightly to see Joe sprawled on one of the sofas snoring softly, baby Joey sprawled over his chest, just as sound asleep, though not snoring. Father Frank, Father Davison, Sister Teresa, Sophia, Francesca and Gabriella are in the dining room, doing tequila shots; Emily isn't sure if that is frightening or funny. Dave, when she finds him, is in the kitchen with Theo and Tony, all three of them leaning against the kitchen counters, voices running over each other until they see her, then they all stop talking.

She could play it off she supposes, be the ambassador's daughter and pretend she hasn't noticed there's something wrong, take it upon herself to fill in the silence. But four hours of sleep and three days of guilt have used up most of her polite reserves. Giving each of them a look that would have made her mother proud, she props her fists on her hips. "You know, if you don't want to let on there's something you don't want someone to know, the best thing to do is to keep talking even if it's nonsense. Dead air generally gives the game away." She nails Dave with a look. "You, of all people, should know that. That's Psych 101."

Theo holds up his hands. But Tony pushes his body off the counter and approaches, kisses her cheek and says, "Go easy on him, White Bread. He was trying to protect you." He turns to Theo. "Let's go see if Jimmy Davison is still the cheapest drunk in three states."

Wearily, Dave drags a hand over his face as his brothers-in-law depart the kitchen. Emily quirks an eyebrow at him and he sighs. "Sonia, ex-wife number three, was here."

"Oh." Her sails are somewhat deflated. While she might feel a slight stab of jealousy, she knows that's not really her business. "Okay. So what's with the cloak and dagger routine?"

"Sonia's not nearly as civil as Maria." His eyes are on her face, obviously trying to gauge her feelings from her expression.

Tamping down on a burst of irritation that he's trying to _read_ her, her voice is sharper than she intends when she asks, "I'm sorry, Dave, I know that's difficult but I don't really understand why you're trying to hide it from me."

He barks out a small laugh that sounds a little like it hurts. "I'm not trying to hide anything, I'm trying to find a way to explain." He rubs a hand roughly over his face. "Shall we say that using the word 'acrimonious' to describe our divorce would be a serious understatement?"

Frustrated, Emily pushes a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "That's not really my business." She doesn't want to sound insensitive, but she's really not understanding where he's headed with this.

Rossi taps the granite countertop with his index finger. "It is if you're here as my guest, my family thinks you're my girlfriend and she threatens you."

Emily boggles at him. "She...what?"

Placing his hand over the bridge of his nose, he rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger; the movement is slow and speaks of exhaustion. "Yeah. She...well, she was..." He gives a huge sigh and grabs the unopened water bottle on the counter beside him. "Can we sit?"

Emily nods dumbly and they move to the kitchen table. Dave cracks the seal on the water bottle and takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving her face. Struggling a little under the scrutiny, Emily sips at her own water and waits for him to speak.

Eventually, he looks down at the water bottle, his thumb absently flicking a corner of the label loosened by the condensation. "She was at the church and saw you, asked somebody who you were. When she showed up here, she barged in and started demanding some pieces of Mama's jewelry."

Emily's mouth drops open. "What?"

"There are some things I bought for Mama when Sonia and I were married and a thing or two Mama had most of her life that she knows are supposed to come to me." His voice is flat. "Rosalie told her in no uncertain terms to hit the door, but she was pretty well into causing a scene by then. When I got to them, she..." He seems to consider what words to use. "She repeated her request. When I told her she was out of her mind, she started threatening you. Assuming, I suppose, that the jewelry would go to you."

"Dave..." She's not sure what she wants to say. It would have been a hard day no matter what, but this adds a whole new layer of awful. "God, Dave, I'm so sorry." Then another thought occurs to her. "How did I not hear this?"

He shrugs. "Rosalie managed to get her into Joe's office. A few people heard it, but it was mostly family. No one who didn't already know the potential for drama that accompanies a Sonia sighting, anyway." He tips the water bottle to his mouth and takes a deep pull, leaving only a fraction of an inch of water in the bottom.

"Wow." She's sure he's grateful the team didn't witness that; she certainly is.

"Yeah." Dave nods and turns the bottle in a slow circle. "Tony went to cover you and John reminded Sonia he had almost forty years on the force and she had just threatened someone in the presence of over half dozen people, including a Federal agent and an officer of the court."

"Wow," she repeats.

Finally, he looks up and meets her eyes again. "I'm not really worried long-term. She's a bitch but her malicious streak is usually contained to screaming and the occasional slap. But I still didn't want you in her sights."

"Dave." Emily shakes her head. "I can take care of myself. You shouldn't have to worry about me at all." She thinks about Tony's words. "I don't need protecting."

His forehead wrinkles and his expression is somewhere between baffled and incredulous. "Prentiss...Emily. Please believe me; I've never known anyone as capable of taking care of themselves. I just wasn't going to be responsible for exposing you to that."

It's easy to see he's entrenched in the idea that it was his duty to protect her from ex-wife number three, though Emily can see it's more from politeness than the feeling she can't fight her own battles. She sighs. It's been a long day and she's tired. It's not difficult to imagine how overwhelmingly tired _he_ must be; it shows in the slump of his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. She wants to pull him close, wrap her arms around him, run her fingers through his hair and soothe him with words of comfort. Instead, she settles for placing her hand over his on the table. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"It wasn't the most fun I've ever had," he agrees dryly. "Though, knowing her, I really shouldn't have been surprised."

Emily makes a non-committal noise. She'd gathered from pieces of information dropped over the last few days that his third wife had not been a popular choice amongst the family. Even the girlfriend before Sonia, the much maligned Bianca, was spoken of more kindly. She wants to ask how he could have chosen someone like that but reminds herself that it's not really any of her business.

She squeezes his hand and is about to suggest an early night when Rosalie comes through the kitchen door. "Davey." She gives them both a tired smile. "Jimmy and Father Frank both tried to outdrink Teresa again."

"Christ." Dave snorts. "When are they ever going to learn?"

"Probably never." Rosalie shakes her head. "I can't decide if they keep thinking they're going to beat her or just do it to get really smashed."

Dave rakes a hand through his hair. "I'm going with really smashed."

Giving a small laugh, Rosalie concedes, "Yeah. You're probably right." Her eyes touch briefly on Emily's hand on his and her face softens. "Look, I hate to ask you, but could you give them a ride home? Gina just left but John says he and Sophia will get Teresa home. Everybody else is in the other direction."

There's a flurry of activity, loading two inebriated priests and several tipsy Rossi sisters into different cars. There are kisses and hugs, a little bit of laughter and a few tears. Each of them, no matter their present level of sobriety, takes a minute to thank Emily for being there with the family, for being there for Dave. She's a little amused and a lot touched, even though every time Father Frank looks at her, he bursts into giggles. Emily rolls her eyes, hands him a bottle of water and prays he passes out as soon as Dave gets him home. She and Rosalie stand in the driveway and watch the red taillights moving further and further away into the darkness.

Rosalie sighs and threads her arm through Emily's as they walk back into the house. "How about we grab a last glass of wine and go sit on the patio until Dave gets back?"

As much as Emily is longing for bed, she's not going to go upstairs until she knows Dave is home safe, and the patio has become her favorite place to pass the time. "That sounds good."

They pass Joe, still snoring lightly in the family room and Rosalie pours them each a generous glass of wine and they head outside.

Rosalie precedes her out the door so Emily doesn't see exactly what she sees, but it's not hard to figure out with her sharp cry of, "Michael!" and the lit cigarette that rolls across the bricks. What she _does_ see is Rosalie with a tight grip on Michael's ear and Michael with an extremely pained expression crying, "Ow. Nonna. Ow."

Rosalie is merciless and pinches tighter and Emily is momentarily reminded of the story of Mama Angela and Theo's father. The thought melts away at the complete _fury_ in Rosalie's voice. "Smoking? You're smoking?"

"Nonna," Michael whimpers.

"Don't you 'Nonna' me," she hisses. "I put my mother in the ground today, Michael David Frontera. _In the ground._ And you have the complete disrespect to stand here in this space she loved so much, that she worked so hard to make beautiful and defile it and your body with cigarette smoke?" Emily sees Rosalie's fingers tighten and Michael leans into her hand, obviously trying to ease the pressure of what is undoubtedly a vicious hold. "Not to mention the fact she watched me put _your_ mother in the ground eight years ago and she told me to raise you and your sister so that you'd be good kids, that you'd respect me."

Emily had a nanny once who was fond of the ear pinch, and while she understands Rosalie is upset, she can't help but feel sympathy for Michael because that has _got_ to hurt. A lot.

Rosalie, undeterred by the tears that have begun to leak from Michael's eyes, continues her tirade. "Well, it's obvious you don't respect me or her. But at least learn to respect yourself." With a tiny bit of a shake, she releases the teenager's ear.

"Nonna," Michael sniffs, "I'm sorry."

Rosalie picks up the pack of cigarettes, shaking them in his face. "If you're really sorry you'll show me by never picking up another one of these again."

"Yes, ma'am." Michael does sound wholly repentant but Emily is unsure how much of that is genuine remorse and how much is the result of pain from his now-red ear.

"Pick that up." She points to the offending butt and Michael slouches over to pick it up, stubbing it out on the edge of the brick pathway as he stands up. Rosalie nods. "Get one of the bottles out of the recycle bin and put some water in it, then put that in there to make sure it's good and out. We'll get rid of it for good tomorrow."

Michael ducks his head. "Yes, ma'am."

"Extra chores for a month," Rosalie pronounces. "Now, before you go shower and wash that stink off of you, apologize to Emily."

Michael turns to Emily before she even has time to say he has nothing to apologize to her for. "Emily, I'm sorry you had to see me being disrespectful to my Nonna. I apologize."

Rosalie nods. "Good boy." She holds out her arms and Michael gives her a hug, resting his cheek against her shoulder for a moment. "You know I love you, right?"

"Even when you're mad," he says. It comes out sounding like a mantra and a comfort obviously longstanding. "No matter what, you love me."

Rosalie turns her head and kisses his cheek. "And even when you're mad at me, you love me."

"Yeah," he says, half-grudgingly, half-laughingly.

She tousles his hair. "Don't forget to brush your teeth. And say your prayers."

"Yes, ma'am," he sighs. "Good night, Emily." He moves towards the door and if he casts a last, longing look at the cigarettes and lighter, his grandmother doesn't call him on it.

Rosalie watches him go, then, shaking her head, sits. "Kids." There's a mixture of frustration and fondness in her tone that speaks volumes in the single word. She reaches out and picks up the pack of cigarettes, holding them in her hand and frowning. "Unfiltered," she says with disgust.

"I didn't even think they made those anymore." Emily loops her hair behind her ear as she sits.

Rosalie makes a non-committal noise and shakes one of the cigarettes out of the pack and holds it up to the light. "You know they keep making the not-so-dangerous things safer but it seems like the dangerous things keep getting more dangerous." Tamping the cigarette against the tabletop, she shakes her head. "I'm getting old, Emily. I know I don't have to tell you, but it just seems like we keep finding worse ways to kill ourselves and each other."

Emily doesn't have an answer for that; she's thought the same thing on a fairly regular basis. She's about to make a flip remark about being older than Rosalie if feeling that way is an indicator of age when Rosalie puts the cigarette between her lips. Turning the wheel on the lighter, she sparks a flame and touches it to the tip of the cigarette.

Equal parts incredulous and amused, Emily feels her eyes widen and she has to bite her lip against a sudden laugh. "Rosalie!"

Rosalie removes the cigarette from her mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke over the shoulder furthest from Emily. "What? It's not like you can rat me out to my parents." She gives Emily a darkly amused smile, just one notch down from the same unapologetic grin Emily has seen on Dave's face so many times. She shouldn't be surprised; she's seen the same grin on Gina and Cheryl, plus Dave's other sisters.

Rosalie looks at her inquiringly. "You want one?"

Emily is briefly tempted, but she shakes her head. "Better not."

Shrugging, Rosalie takes another long drag then exhales slowly over her shoulder. "So, Davey told you Sonia was here?" She touches a finger to her tongue, bringing away a small shard of tobacco, then flicking it out into the air.

Suddenly cautious, Emily nods. "Yeah, he did. After the fact."

"That woman is batshit crazy if she thinks she's getting a single thing of my mother's." The vitriol in Rosalie's voice shocks Emily.

Emily just blinks at her for a moment, searching for an appropriate response. "I...that must have made a difficult day worse."

Rosalie gives her a look that is eerily similar to Dave's _you have got to be fucking kidding me_ look. "Emily, if Sonia showed up on the same day I won the lottery, the Nobel Peace Prize, an Academy Award and Michael got accepted to med school? It would still be a bad day."

Taking a sip of her wine, Emily smiles. "Not a fan, huh?"

Flicking the ashes off the end of the cigarette, Rosalie nods. "You could say that." She bites her lip for a moment. "His first wife...did he ever tell you the story?"

Emily feels a little anxious, a little wary. "Just that it was a very short-lived teenage marriage."

Rosalie considers her for a moment. "You went to Commack on the case with Emma Schuller's husband?"

Resting her fingers against the base of her wine glass, Emily tilts her head. "Yes."

"So you know about Emma?" Rosalie lifts her own glass and sips.

"I know Dave loved her." She swallows heavily. There's a pinch of jealousy in the center of her chest and roiling uneasiness in her stomach. "Rosalie, I don't...I'm not..." Taking a large swallow of wine, she closes her eyes for a moment, breathes in, finds calm. "I don't want to offend you, but I'm not comfortable talking about...everything personal aside, the work we do doesn't afford us a lot of privacy or secrets from each other. It's not right for me to find out details of Dave's past from anybody but Dave."

Taking one last draw from the cigarette, Rosalie smiles as she exhales then leans down to stub the cigarette out on the patio. "I hope he knows how good he has it with you."

Briefly, Emily closes her eyes, then sighing she opens them and looks at Rosalie. "We're not..." She struggles, stumbles, tries to find a way to tell Rosalie the truth without making it sound as wrong as it does in her head.

Rosalie waves a careless hand. "I don't know why, but you seem to think you're not as serious as the rest of us do. But you...trust me, I know my brother. You're good for him and he cares a lot about you."

Emily feels her eyes well and she bites down on the inside of her lip to keep herself from crying. "I..." She clears her throat. "I care a lot about him."

Patting her hand, Rosalie smiles. "I know you do. And I'm glad." She purses her lips. "If you'll allow me one last nosy, big sister thing...he's never been married in church." Emily starts to protest, but Rosalie raises a hand. "I'm just sayin', just in case the information becomes useful at some point in the future."

Huffing out a laugh, Emily presses a hand to her forehead. "Thank you for not suggesting names for babies."

Rosalie raises her eyes heavenward. "Sweet Mother! As if I didn't do that the first time I saw you."

Grinning, Emily sits back in her chair. "He warned me, you know."

"Yeah, yeah." Rosalie is toying with the lighter, striking the wheel enough to get sparks but not enough to get flame. "We've already got all the good Italian names covered, though there's nothing wrong with a repeat: David Jr. or Anthony or Joseph or John. Michael is a good name. Christopher, Dominic, Dante, Francis. Vincent. Angelo! We don't have an Angelo...or a Gabriel, Gabriel would be good."

Emily just shakes her head, but Rosalie appears to be warming to the subject, though Emily can see the same evil glint in Rosalie's eyes as when she had tortured Emily at the wedding. "You don't have to go traditional at all, you just gotta get the saint name in there. Bartemus. Silas. Mathias. Adolphus. Amedeus. Samson! Who wouldn't want a kid named Samson?"

Emily giggles rather helplessly and Rosalie grins. "I'm gettin' old. Can't remember all my saint names. Of course we haven't even started on the girls. I was leaning towards Isabella or Florentina for a girl. Florentina, isn't that a great name? Named after a saint and a super-food, what could be better? But now that I know you better, I think Rosalie." She waves her hand in a magnanimous gesture. "One of your kids might be good enough to have my name."

Reaching forward, Emily covers Rosalie's hand with her own. "Don't count on anything, okay?"

Rosalie's gaze and her smile are soft, only half teasing. "Don't you count anything out, okay?"

Emily just shakes her head and squeezes Rosalie's fingers. "I don't want you to be disappointed."

Rosalie nods, slowly, her expression and her tone serious. "I just want him to be happy."

Emily smiles and she can feel the wistful quality to it and knows it's okay if Rosalie sees. "Me, too. More than anything."

They sit quietly for awhile until the French door opens and Dave steps out onto the patio. "Hey."

"Davey." Rosalie pats the chair next to her. "Did you get Jimmy and Father Frank home safe?"

He drops heavily into the chair. "Two pickled priests delivered safely back to Father Frank's rooms to marinate overnight." He rubs a hand over his beard. "I hope Jimmy's church wasn't expecting him home tonight." His nose twitches as he gives an exaggerated sniff of the air. "Do I smell cigarettes?"

Rosalie points to the pack and the lighter on the table. "Michael." She shakes her head sorrowfully. "Kids. What are you gonna do?"

Dave's expression darkens and his brow knits. "You want me to talk to him?"

"Nah." Rosalie heaves a put-upon sigh. "I don't know what good that would do. He knows you smoke cigars with the boys and he'd just think all adults were hypocrites."

Emily sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and fights her laughter for all she's worth. Rosalie slides her a sly smile.

Dave looks between the two of them. "What are you up to, Rose?"

Rosalie looks affronted. "Me? I'm not up to nothin'. Emily and I have just been having a nice chat."

Looking a little wary, he studies Emily's face as she attempts, not very successfully, to even out her expression. "Somehow, I am not comforted," he grumps.

Rosalie drains her wineglass. "I promise you, you could have been part of the conversation and been perfectly comfortable."

That thought diminishes Emily's laughter as she imagines Dave hearing her say she cared for him; her words may have been fairly innocuous, but she knows if her tone and expression were enough to reassure Rosalie, then they would have been huge blinking red lights to Dave. As much as she's loved this time with Dave's family, as lovely as it's been to be accepted, to belong, she's grateful to be headed home tomorrow. She feels the need to gain some equilibrium and distance, to find some balance and perspective.

She takes the last sip from her own glass and stands. "I think I'm going to call it a night."

Rosalie captures her hand. "Thank you for everything today."

Shaking her head, Emily leans down to kiss Rosalie's cheek. "I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, you did." Rosalie squeezes Emily's fingers. "You were here." She releases her hand. "Sleep well."

"I'll be up in a bit," Dave says and Emily nods.

It's probably her imagination, but she thinks she can smell a trace of smoke in her hair, so she takes a shower and washes her hair, blow-drying it quickly afterward, not worrying much about what it looks like. She dons her pajamas and slides into bed. Below the bedroom window she hears the back and forth of Dave and Rosalie's voices; she can't discern any particular words or tone, but the cadence of the conversation sends her to sleep.

When she wakes, she's warm. Slowly coming to consciousness, she absorbs the warmth. It's not the overwhelming heat of too many covers on a summer night, but the bone-comforting warmth of a body snuggled against her. _Dave._ She smiles, still mostly asleep and allows herself the sensation of coming fully awake within his embrace. It takes a minute, but she also realizes from the hard, insistent pressure against her ass, some parts of Dave are more interested in the snuggling position than others.

Suddenly wide awake, brain on high alert, Emily reminds herself to breathe. Her first thought is, _it's a natural occurrence_. Her second thought is, _damn, he's packing_.

She's trying to be a responsible adult and tell herself this was bound to happen. The hugs and hand-holding have been offered as comfort, but they're also two healthy adults sharing a bed. It doesn't mean she should take advantage of the situation though, no matter how much she wants to.

It would be so easy to roll over, wrap her arms around him and take what his body seems so willing to give. It would be so easy to roll over and put her hands on him, put her mouth on him, and offer him more physical comfort than just holding him. The idea holds all kinds of appeal, not just as a way to offer him comfort, but because she _wants_ him. She wants to feel him...feel his hands on her, his mouth on her; feel him on her, in her. And it's those thoughts, more than anything, that stop her from rolling over and pressing herself into his body.

His mother just died and he's hurting. Though it's hard to think of Rossi as vulnerable, making a decision that impacts both of them based more on what she wants rather than what he might need keeps her from moving. He's not indifferent to her, she knows; he's let her know on more than one occasion that he thinks she's beautiful and everyone knows David Rossi has a thing for beautiful women. But he's never indicated that he wants anything more than to be teammates and friends. If she presses now and takes what she wants, she'd be taking advantage of him and changing the situation in a way he's never indicated he wants. It would be...

Her thought process comes to a screeching halt as she feels him begin to stir against her and she makes herself relax, consciously evens out her breathing so he won't be embarrassed. But of course this is Rossi; he's not going to let a natural occurrence like morning wood embarrass him. He'd be more likely to worry about her feeling awkward, and, she decides, if she doesn't have the courage to turn around and offer to help him out, she probably would feel awkward if he knew she was awake. So, she keeps her eyes closed and her breathing even and does a very good job of not stiffening when he pulls her a little tighter against his body, when he puts his nose against her neck where it meets her shoulder and inhales deeply, when he presses a soft kiss against her shoulder and eases away from her.

She stays there, stunned, as she hears the bathroom door snick closed. Feeling slightly sick, she curls into a ball. This was an opportunity and she missed it. The erection might be as simple as male physiology but the kiss...no, that was calculated, deliberate. Her brain is flying over possibilities; this time she rejects affection and comfort. The way he pulled her close, the press of his lips to her skin was _not_ about comfort.

_Okay._

Uncurling from the fetal position, she considers the other possibilities.

_Lust._

All right. That wouldn't be bad. That wouldn't be bad at all. Unless, of course, he's decided he's not going to pursue that because it might fuck up their work relationship and _would_ fuck up their friendship. She doesn't take either of those relationships lightly and she's sure he doesn't either.

Or...

Or it could be more than just physical attraction. She thinks about Garcia declaring that Rossi was smitten with Emily and Rosalie saying Dave obviously cared a lot about her.

She moves to a sitting position, hugging her knees.

But, if he was interested in more than sex, why wouldn't he have acted on that by now? He's had ample opportunity over the last couple of months. And, while she's tried to be as circumspect as possible, he's the world's best profiler, he was bound to know she felt more than...

The knock on the bedroom door interrupts her swirling thoughts and causes her heart to jump. She takes a deep breath, checks to make sure her camisole is in place, then calls out, "Come in."

Cheryl is there, dressed in a black tank top over a white sports bra, running shorts and running shoes. She gives Emily a shy smile. "Good morning."

"Hi, Cheryl." Emily smiles back. "What's up?"

"Uncle Dave said he'd go on a run with me this morning. I just wanted to see if he was ready." She takes a tentative step into the room.

"Oh." So much for trying to figure things out by how he acts when he emerges from the bathroom. "He must be getting ready now."

Cheryl nods and looks uncomfortable for a minute, so Emily takes pity on her. "You can wait here if you want."

The girl's smile grows wider and she drops unceremoniously onto the end of the bed and falls back onto the mattress. She grins as she looks up at Emily. "I wish you didn't have to go back today. I really like hanging out with you."

Emily isn't sure if she means "you" as in "the two of you" or "you" as in "Emily Prentiss" but, either way, it's flattering. "Oh, that's sweet. I like hanging out with you, too."

Cheryl reaches over her head and drags Dave's pillow down and settles it beneath her neck. "Nonna says she'll bring me to DC to see you and she's sure Uncle Dave will bring you back to visit."

Emily chooses to address the former and ignore the latter. "You are welcome to come hang out with me in DC anytime."

"Cool." Cheryl beams.

"What's cool?" Dave asks, emerging from the bathroom in a t-shirt and running shorts.

"Emily says I can come hang out with you guys in DC sometime." Cheryl clasps her hands over her stomach.

Dave raises an eyebrow in Emily's direction. "Oh, she did, did she?"

"Yes, she did and you aren't allowed to talk her out of it." Cheryl's tone is a warning.

Holding up a hand, Dave grins. "Wouldn't dream of it." He touches her foot lightly with his own. "Come on; I thought you wanted to show me how your stride has improved."

Cheryl groans, but raises her hand into the air, aiming it in his direction. Shaking his head, he takes hold and pulls her to standing. He looks at Emily. "We're supposed to have lunch with my sisters. We'll leave after that, if that works for you?"

Not giving Emily a chance to answer, Cheryl drapes herself across Dave's chest, drawing the word "No," out into a pathetic whine, then adding, "Don't go."

Gently, but firmly, Dave untangles Cheryl from his body. "Look, kiddo, if we don't go back to DC, there's no chance for you to visit."

"Look, Uncle Dave." While she can't mimic his tone, Cheryl perfectly replicates his cadence and intonation. "If you don't go back to DC, there's no reason for a visit."

Emily chokes out a laugh, eliciting a grin from Cheryl and a stern look from Dave. "You are not helping."

She just shakes her head. "And you are not running."

He shakes his head too, tugs on Cheryl's ponytail and says, "She's right. Come on, show me what you got."

Emily smiles as she watches them leave, shamelessly enjoying the rearview of Dave in his running shorts. When the door closes behind them, she heaves out a breath.

This was good, she decides. A nice little reminder from the Universe that she doesn't really want to have a, _Hey, how do you feel about me? Oh, and, by the way, if it's just about sex, feel free to nail me at any time, _conversation in his sister's house a hundred and fifty miles from home with two teenagers close by. With five sisters close by, for that matter.

They've gone this long. It can wait another day or two. She can wait until they get back to DC, until they're out of this pocket of comfort and forced intimacy. When life resumes some semblance of normal she'll have a better gauge about where he is emotionally. Failing that, she can at least initiate a conversation in territory that is, if not more neutral, at least a little easier to escape.

Throwing back the covers, she makes her first move toward facing the day.

The morning passes quickly, getting ready and packing. After Dave and Cheryl return from their run, Francesca and Tony turn up along with a rather bleary-eyed Father Frank. The men lean against the kitchen counters, sipping coffee while Fran and Emily help Rosalie sort through cards from the flowers to make a list of _Thank You_ notes to be written.

"Your last name is Prentiss, right?" Rosalie asks.

Emily hums an affirmative answer as she tries to interpret the writing on yet another scrawled card.

"You know any ambassadors?" Holding up a thick linen card, Rosalie quirks an eyebrow at her. Joe, Tony, Fran and Father Frank all turn to look at her, faces open and interested.

Emily reaches for the card; it's not just her mother's stationery, it's her mother's elegant handwriting.

Between his brothers-in-law, Dave is looking into his coffee cup. "She sent the white arrangement. The big one."

"This is her handwriting." Emily is perplexed.

Dave shrugs. "She could have had someone deliver the card to the florist or sent it overnight." He tilts his head. "I would think by now you should know not to underestimate her."

Rosalie looks back and forth between Dave and Emily. "So, you _do_ know an ambassador."

"Emily's mother is Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss." Dave takes a sip of coffee.

Emily can see only the "Ambassador" registers with most of them, but Tony's eyebrows go up in recognition.

"Impressive." Rosalie goes back to her list. "If you could get me her address before you leave, that would be great." She looks back up at Emily. "And yours. What's your middle initial?"

Emily begins carefully printing her mother's address on a separate sheet for Rosalie. She wants to say she doesn't need a note, but she knows better than to try to argue at this point. "A."

"Anne?" Francesca hazards.

"Amanda," Dave supplies. Emily feels a little ridiculous that his remembering her middle name causes such a flush of pleasure to go through her. Mentally, she rolls her eyes at herself. No matter how he feels about her, she needs to get over her goofy romantic notions.

"I considered Amanda for Jennifer," Francesca says. "It just didn't seem to go as well with Milano."

From there the conversation flows into one about names, saints' names and baby names. Very soon, it's time to leave for lunch. They've commandeered a private room at a neighborhood restaurant and lunch is lively with the six siblings, their mates, Father Frank and Emily. There are no tears, only a peaceful feeling of acceptance and quiet grief. This is their life now and they need to move forward, no matter how much they love and miss their mother.

The food is delicious and the wine is good, but the company is the best part as far as Emily is concerned. She's become more than fond of this family and enjoys being with them tremendously, the laughter, the teasing and the support. She's going to miss them she thinks wistfully. The "lunch" stretches into the afternoon until finally Dave says they have to go if they're going to get back to DC at a decent hour.

Each member of the family takes the time to kiss and hug Emily. They thank her for being with them and make jokes with her about keeping Dave in line. When Father Frank bids her goodbye, his wide grin breaks out and she is afraid she's about to be treated to another bout of the giggles, but he gives her a hug and offers her a blessing. As she starts toward the SUV, he calls, "Emily."

Mentally bracing herself, she turns to face him, sure her wariness shows on her face. "Yes?"

His voice is gentle. "Your middle name…Amanda…you know it means 'worthy of love'?"

Of course, Emily knows that just as she knows Emily means "to strive or excel or rival" but she's never heard the words said aloud in such a gentle tone. "Yes," she nods.

"Perhaps the message of your middle name is one you should cling to when you doubt your place in the world?" He tilts his head, his beautiful smile lighting his face.

Emily blinks. "Yes, Father."

"Good. Be safe."

Dave had only had one glass of wine to Emily's three, so he drives and Emily settles into the passenger seat. As they begin the journey home, Dave is mostly silent, not morose, just thoughtful, she thinks. She watches the signs and the traffic and tries not to talk, leaving him to his thoughts. It's been a sad and beautiful few days and very little of it has been about her. The one thing she would want to talk about isn't a conversation they need to have when they're both effectively trapped, so she's content with the quiet. The sun is warm and her stomach is full and the wine and steady motion of the ride lull her to sleep.

When she wakes they're outside of DC and traffic is, as usual, a bitch. By the time they're through the snarl, she's ready to be done with riding and be on her way home. When they arrive at Quantico, Dave locates her Prius and then surprises her by getting out with her. He hefts her go bag from the backseat of the SUV to the backseat of the Prius, then stands looking at her.

She attempts a smile. "Thanks for the ride."

"Emily." His voice is a little scratchy and threaded through with gravitas. "Thank you for being with me these last few days."

She thinks of a thousand things she could say, _that's what friends are for_ or, _I was happy to help_ or a simple, _you're welcome_. But she doesn't say any of them. She reaches up and cups his cheek, running her thumb over his cheekbone and giving him a gentle smile.

He brings his hand up, cupping his fingers around hers and pulls it to his mouth, placing a gentle kiss on the back, his lips soft, but the pressure firm, mustache prickling slightly. Then, he rests their hands against his chest, his thumb ghosting across the back where his lips had touched just a moment before. "I don't think…" He shakes his head. "I can't thank you enough. There are no words."

She tightens her fingers against his. "You don't need any."

He smiles at her, but his eyes are dark and serious. "When things settle down a little, I'd like to maybe buy you dinner and we could talk?"

Emily feels her heart jump and it takes every bit of self-control and patience she has not to insist they talk _now, now, right now._ Instead, she swallows and nods. "That would be good."

"Okay." His thumb is still making slow passes over the back of her hand. "Okay." He looks at her car, then back at her. "You're okay to drive?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. " She wonders if he knows he's still holding her hand, but then she's holding her breath as he leans forward. For a millisecond she thinks he's going to kiss her on the mouth, but he presses a soft, slow kiss to her cheek instead.

"I'll talk to you soon." His voice is a little raspy and he clears his throat. "Safe home."

Her eyes are wide and she's sure she must be flushed. Her heart is racing and her stomach is jumping, but there's nothing left to do but leave. "Goodnight, Dave."

He drops her hand and shuts her door, then steps back. He stands there as she starts the car, not moving as she backs out of the space. She waves and he lifts a hand in response. He stays there as she pulls away, getting smaller in her rearview mirror, until she has to turn the corner towards the exit and she can't see him anymore.

She's not sure if he's still standing there then, but wherever he is, she knows her heart is with him.

Her mind is tumbling with thoughts and all of them come back to the same thing. He wants to talk. The unspoken _about them_ seems fairly clear to her. She doesn't know what it means exactly, but she remembers the look on his face and she feels more hope than she's felt about anything in years. She lays it out in her head, like she's working a case: things he's said, places they've been, how angry he was in Charleston, how gallant he was after. She's distracted and nearly gets creamed by a tractor-trailer so she makes herself stop thinking and concentrate on the road in front of her.

When she gets home, she goes through her mail, unpacks her go bag, stares into her nearly empty fridge and calls for take-out. None of it is any different than any other time out of town, except for the feeling that gravity isn't working quite as well as it usually does and the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth is the steady thump of her hopeful heart.

It's hard to concentrate on anything; she has to read an e-mail from her college roommate three times before she absorbs the gist of it and she can't retain anything from the latest _Harry Dresden_ novel she'd left on her coffee table. Finally, she gives up, going upstairs and putting on her pajamas, washing and moisturizing her face, brushing her teeth, all of her usual routine, but her thoughts never wander far from Dave. She's almost ready to turn the light out when Dave's name lights up the display on her cell phone. "Hey."

He clears his throat. "Hey."

"You okay?" It's hard not being able to see his face, knowing if she could see him then she could tell what he needed.

He huffs out a laugh that almost sounds painful and she winces. "I can't sleep."

"I'm sorry, Dave." This is agony, knowing he's hurting and there's no way to make it better. "What can I do?"

She hears him swallow before he speaks. "Open your door."

"What? Dave, where are you?" Flipping back the covers, she slides out of bed.

"I know it's…it seems silly; it was only three nights. But I can't." There's a sigh on his end of the line. "I don't think I can sleep without you." He gives a small self-deprecating laugh. "I was going to wait and talk to you, but I can't think of a reason to wait anymore."

Her heart is in her throat as she starts down the stairs. "Dave." The carpet is thick underfoot, but she can't help the wince when her bare feet meet the cold tiles of the entry hall.

"If it's too weird…I'll…" She's never heard him with this kind of hesitation in his voice and she can't s  
Seem to get the damn chain off as he continues. "I don't…" she hears him swallow and then, "Please don't say no."

Finally, she gets the door open and he's standing there with the phone to his ear but he's looking into her eyes when he repeats, "Please don't say no."

Emily doesn't say anything at all. Instead, she pulls him in and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her head into the crook of his neck. His skin is cool and she wonders how long he's been standing outside waiting to call to ask her to let him in to sleep with her.

He's holding her tight, so tight, and though it hurts some and it's a little difficult to draw in air she's, _God,_ she doesn't know what she is. Everything she's felt over the last months, the last few years are exploding like fireworks on the National Mall on the Fourth of July between her breasts, behind her eyes. She feels his lips ghost over her hair and graze her ear and it's like a multi-colored chrysanthemum of light bursts into being in the middle of her chest. She's aware of his hands on her back and stars shoot and become a supernova where her heart is supposed to be. It's everything she's wanted for so long and she can barely breathe and her heart is thrumming in her own ears.

His voice, rough and aching, breaks through the sensory overload. "I can't fuck this up, Emily."

"What?" She feels like she should draw back and look at him but she doesn't want any space between them, even if it means not looking into his eyes. "Dave? What do you mean?"

"You're my best friend, Emily. I can't fuck that up."

Burrowing a little further into him, just for a few seconds, she breathes him in and tells herself, in case she never has this again, _Remember. Remember this._ Then, carefully, she draws back, not a lot, just enough to see his eyes, and says, voice quivering, "It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Emily." The look he gives her is one she would call bleak were it not for something, some small something that she can't put a name to, there in his eyes. Unsmiling, he lifts his hand and touches her cheek with just the barest tips of his fingers. "Don't you know?" His eyes are not on hers but rather on his fingers resting gently against her face and his voice is jagged, directly in contrast to his light touch against her skin. "This means everything. This _is_ everything."

Her stomach jumps and she feels like her heart is in her eyes, everything waiting there for him to read _if only he would._ "Dave." She glides her hand against his neck and up to cup his cheek, watching as his eyes slide closed. Attempting to make her tone light, she clearly hears the affection and, yes, love in her own voice when she says, "We'll both have to work really hard not to fuck this up then, because you're my best friend, too."

His eyes open and he's looking at her so intently, she gets the feeling he wants to see inside her head to see what she really means. So she wraps herself around him, holding him tight, fingers sliding through his hair and _remember, remember_.

Now his hold feels almost tentative, as if he's afraid to grasp her too tightly. After a moment she draws back to help him out of his coat. He looks stunned...there's a slow dawn of happiness on his face, but stunned is still his primary expression. She's smiling as she starts to just toss his coat over a chair but then remembers how fussy he is about his clothes, so she grabs a hanger from the coat closet and hangs it up. She pauses for a moment and admires his coat there amongst her things, hanging between her peacoat and her J Crew raincoat. It's different than everything else, but things don't have to look the same to belong, she thinks as she turns back to him.

He's still standing in the hall just watching her and she smiles at him. "I just wanted to remember what it was like the first time I got to see something of yours in my closet."

Tilting his head, he gives her a ghost of a smile and holds his hand out to her. Willingly, she puts her hand in his and allows him to draw her close. "You're so beautiful," his voice is rough around the edges and she closes her eyes to savor it. His hand slides against the side of her face, his thumb glancing over her cheekbone. "So beautiful, inside and out."

She places her hands against his chest, absorbing the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt and leans into his hand. "Dave," she breathes, not exactly sure what she wants to say. She's not nervous or afraid; it just feels a little unreal that they're finally here after all this time.

His thumb is still stroking across her cheekbone and she looks into his eyes. _He's beautiful,_ she thinks and is surprised by the thought, but the look shining in his eyes, the expression on his face, all seem nothing less than beautiful to her. Swallowing heavily she leans forward to touch her lips to his. Feeling more than hearing his sigh, she smiles against his mouth as one hand glides around to cup the back of her head and his other arm wraps around her back.

His lips move against hers, touching and pressing, over and over, then moving to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. He tilts her head a little and mouths a kiss to her chin, then across her cheek towards her ear. "Emily," his breath is a warm gust against her ear. "I love you."

Her arms wrap around his neck and she presses her body against his and has to fight sudden tears. She closes her eyes just to savor the moment, so she can always remember the moment she got to finally, _finally_ say, "I love you, too."

Dave pulls back from her a little and rests his forehead against hers. He smoothes the hair back from her cheeks. "I love you," he repeats. "And I want you. So much."

"Dave." Emily can't help the shaky laugh she gives. She feels a little dizzy; she feels a lot giddy. But mostly she just feels in love. "Dave," she says again, helplessly. "Kiss me."

"I thought you'd never ask," he murmurs, just as his lips touch hers.

She huffs out a breath against his mouth, but then nearly forgets _to_ breathe when he pulls her close and kisses her, lips warm and seeking against hers. He takes his time with her mouth, his lips touching hers softly, pressing, tasting, reverent and just a little bit greedy at the same time.

His hands thread through her hair, his palms cradling her head with exquisite tenderness. "I was going to wait, give you a little time to yourself. But-" His voice is a little thick and he clears his throat. "I don't want to be without you. It doesn't make sense if I can be with you."

She looks up at him through her lashes and she just can't stop smiling.

He rubs his cheek against hers; the prickle of his goatee causing her nerve endings to tingle at the thought of what that prickle will feel like on other parts of her. He's whispering in her ear, words of desire and love, words falling against her skin like rain on the desert, nourishing something so long starved inside of her and all she can think is _love, love, love._

And there's only one possible answer.

"Come to bed, Dave," she says against his ear and moves out of his embrace.

They lock the door together, his hand over hers as the deadbolt turns and the chain slides into place, as though they're both afraid breaking contact will break the moment, as though by locking themselves in, they are locking themselves together.

Together, holding hands, they climb the stairs.

**Epilogue**

With the exception of the light scratch of pen on paper and ambient noise leaking in from the hall, the room is quiet. The yellow glow from a small lamp gives a corner of the room a warmer cast than the overhead lights that had been turned off an hour previously.

Dave, glasses perched on the end of his nose, is completely focused on the paper in front of him until a noise, somewhere between a squeak and a cough, reaches his ear. Placing the pen on the table beside the form, he leans forward. "Hey," he says in a hushed tone to the blanket-wrapped bundle in the plexi-glass bassinet. "Hey, now. I thought you were sleeping." The baby turns her head toward his voice, blinks at him and curls a tiny hand under her chin, making another unhappy noise, this one a little louder than the one before.

"Okay, you win." He smiles widely and stands to lift her up and out of the bassinet. "I'm not setting a precedent on always giving in, just so you know. But we can't have you waking your mom." He looks toward the bed where Emily is sleeping, propped up against several pillows. "Somebody might have worn her out when they were making their appearance. Not naming any names." His daughter gives a small squeak as Dave cuddles her close and returns to his chair.

"Speaking of names..." He taps the paper on the table. "This is an application for your birth certificate. You're going to need one of those to go to school and get your driver's license and get a passport for when we travel and when you go off to college and when you get married..._when you're forty_, and probably dozens of other things all throughout your life." Adjusting the baby so he can see her face a little better (Emily's nose, yes, definitely Emily's nose), he continues to whisper. "After awhile, it's going to just seem like a piece of paper to you, an important one, but still, just a piece of paper, Angel."

A small fist waves as Dave adjusts the pink knit cap on the baby's head, continuing to speak gently. "But to me, your birth certificate is the most important thing in the world. It marks the day Emily Amanda Prentiss Rossi - that's your mom - and David Anthony Rossi - that's me, your pop - went from being a couple to being a family when their little Angel was born. And there's never going to be anything more important than that." Leaning down, he gently touches his lips to her forehead.

The baby blinks up at him again and opens her mouth in a dainty yawn; Dave laughs quietly. "Not even three hours old and your old man's already boring you." He traces a finger over the delicate curve of her eyebrows. "It's all right, you should get some sleep. When daylight gets here and everybody finds out you've arrived, the hordes are going to descend to see you." Smiling, he watches as the baby's eyelids lower, then slowly rise again. "Yeah, I better warn you. When your Aunt Rose sees you, she's going to cry all over you...well, probably all of your aunts will, including your aunts from the BAU."

Unconcerned with this dire prediction, Dave's little Angel gives another tiny yawn and when her eyes close this time, she's asleep, but her father keeps talking in a low, soothing voice. "In a couple of months we'll have a christening for you and all of your aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins will come meet you and then you'll really get an idea of what a big family you're a part of." He leans back in the chair, letting her rest easily in the crook of his arm, his eyes on the rosebud mouth, her mother's nose in miniature, ten minute fingernails on the tips of ten perfect little fingers. "I love you, Angela Elizabeth Rossi."

Time moves forward and the sky outside begins to lighten and Dave sits, content to watch over both of his girls as they sleep.

**fin**


End file.
